When Yesterday Never Was
by bambers2
Summary: Dean vanishes, leaving Sam to discover his brother's whereabouts before it is too late, while Dean finds himself trapped in a world of nightmares and delusions of a yesterday that ever was.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter One_

Sam dropped his crowbar, swiped the sheen of perspiration from his forehead and waited as Dean lowered himself into the stone-lined hole. Another grave, another coffin to salt and burn, yet another angry spirit's bones to lay to rest. Lately, it seemed their lives consisted of nothing but one-night stands in dark, creepy cemeteries unearthing rotted flesh and setting their ritual fires.

Sam stretched aching muscles. Something was wrong. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach something was very wrong. There were just too many angry spirits, all in such close proximity to each other. Too many sleepless nights hunting them down. Too many nightmares plaguing Dean afterward.

Of course Dean refused to talk about them. _He is such a damn stubborn ass! _Sam knew his brother's lack of sleep and the oppressive heat was starting to affect his ability to hunt._ Would it really kill the great Dean Winchester to admit he needs a little help for once?_

Dean tried to act as if nothing was wrong, laughing and joking as usual, but the weariness haunting his haggard features and dark smudges beneath his eyes spoke volumes. _Damn it, Dean, why can't you just tell me what's wrong? If you don't get a good night's sleep soon, you're gonna crash_.

Slowly, Dean pulled himself out of the grave, stood and struck a match, setting ablaze the remains of Cynthia Caldwell, one time peppy cheerleader, turned vengeful spirit after she was brutally raped and murdered. Golden-orange flames licked greedily at the edges of the ground, casting eery shadows over Dean's inscrutable features, green eyes haloed in dark lashes.

They stood watching the glowing embers for a while, smoke curling up through the limbs of moss-festooned oaks bending protectively over the final rest of the deceased, until the task was complete and Dean motioned for Sam to help him close the cover on the above ground grave. With tired muscles straining against their sweat dampened T-shirts, Sam and Dean pushed the heavy stone lid back into place.

"I don't know about you, Sammy, but I could use a drink." Dean flashed Sam a quick smile, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck with his hand. "Man, this heat's a bitch."

Sam let out a deep sigh, and nodded.

"What's wrong this time, Sammy? You've been sulking all night." Dean strode away without waiting for a response, dried dead grass crunching beneath his feet.

Sam followed, ducking beneath a thick curtain of Spanish moss, its snaking tendrils snagging in his long brown hair. He brusquely raked his fingers through his hair, freeing it from the moss. "I don't sulk, Dean."

"Sure you do, dude. Hell, I'd be worried if you didn't have at least one angst-filled moment every hundred miles or so." Dean cracked a smile as he clapped Sam on the back. "So out with it."

"You know this really sucks."

"What are you talkin' about?"

"How many salt and burns have we done in the last month alone? Ten . . . fifteen?"

"Seventeen, but who's counting." Dean grasped a stray branch, pushed it out of the way, and held onto the limb until Sam passed.

"That's my point, Dean. Seventeen. Doesn't that sound a little high to you?"

"Nope, but then again, I don't analyze everything to death. I have you to do that for me, geekboy."

Sam pursed his lips, eyes narrowing as he grimaced at his brother. "Dude, I'm being serious."

"When aren't you being serious, dude?" Dean sidestepped a border marker and turned left toward the entrance of the cemetery. "Come on, Sammy, first round's on me."

"Look, I know something's wrong. Why won't you just tell me what the nightmares are about?"

Dean green eyes darkened as he paused and scowled at Sam. "M'okay Sammy. Why can't you just leave it alone?"

"Just tell me what it is, Dean, so I can help."

"I don't need your help. There's nothin' wrong." Dean picked up his pace, long angry strides kicking up dust.

Sam turned and glanced back at Cynthia's grave one more time. _Damn it, Dean. Can't you see it's as if something's baiting us? Leading us on, making us run to keep up. Just waiting for you to mess up? _With a frustrated sigh, Sam hurried to catch up to his brother.

They strode past row after row of old family cemetery plots, Dean never slowing his pace. Sam scowled at his receding back and lengthened his stride to keep up.

A sudden gust of strong wind whipped across their faces, moaning and howling through the cemetery. The trees groaned, swaying; bits of leaves and small twigs raining to the ground. Sam aimed his flashlight toward the noise, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. Slowly, he swept the narrow beam of light across assorted grave markers. Statuary mingled with plain headstones, the pristine marble of the newer sites and bleached white of older ones — some so old the engraving had all but faded away.

Both boys halted, at the sound of twigs snapping close ahead of them as the wind abruptly died away, and saw a warm amber-glow spilling across the darkness. They quickly exchanged knowing glances as they heard the soft mournful sound of someone crying. The background chorus of peepers went eerily silent. Not a single croak broke the oppressive stillness.

Dean gestured toward a grouping of thick, flowering shrubs. The mournful sighs and sobs continued, echoing eerily in the darkness. Silently, he motioned for Sam to go around the thicket as he cautiously crept toward the noise. Sam nodded, he knew this routine well, and stealthily made his way through the darkened cemetery.

Sam crept around the copse, to find Dean standing and warily staring at a woman kneeling at a graveside. A tall statue of an angel, hands clasped in prayer, stood guard above and the woman's long copper-colored curls spilled down on the gray cloak that pooled around her, draping onto the dry scorched earth, the lantern at her side cast writing shadows.

As if she knew she was being watched, the woman glanced up at Sam, light gray-blue eyes glistening with unspent sorrow. She reached out to him with long slender arms, and he took a step forward.

"Sam." Dean raised his hand and shook his head in clear warning.

Sam stopped immediately, looking from his brother to the strange woman and back once more. His pulse quickened as a tingle crept up his spine.

"They're all dead you know," she uttered in a sad forlorn voice. "All of them."

"Umm . . . yeah, graveyard." Dean cocked a brow as he took a tentative step toward her, his hand reaching behind his back for his .45.

She swiveled around to face Dean, tears streaming down her face. "And so are you, Dean. So are you . . . you just don't know it yet."

Before either Dean or Sam had a chance to react she let out a deep screeching wail and disappeared in a wispy trail of black smoke.

Sam's head jerked up to look at Dean, his stomach clenching in knots. Dean frowned, his hand tightening around his .45. A look of resignation flickered in his eyes before they turned hard and determined. Dean shoved the gun back in his belt, lips tight, the muscle in his jaw jerking. "Let's get that drink."

Chapter notes...I've been kicking this story idea around a while in my mind...hopefully it will be an interesting story...let me know what you think...thanks, Bambers;)


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

At the entrance of the Rock 'n a Hard Place tavern, Dean halted. He quickly scanned the dimly lit interior, noted the large crowd, the placement of the doors, attentive to every detail. For a hunter that could be the difference between life and death. Finding nothing more precarious than two men locked in an arm wrestling contest, and a buxom woman in a low-cut blouse leaning over a well-worn pool table, he nodded to Sam and they entered.

Dean grimaced hearing the twang of steel guitars and the wail of country music coming from the jukebox. _God, with a name like Rock 'n a Hard Place, you'd think they'd be playing Metallica instead of this crap. _Several couples two-stepped to the music on the small wooden dance floor. _Shit, this is worse than a nightmare. We're so outta here. _

He turned to Sam. "Let's get outta. . . ."

Dean paused, his gaze strayed to the bar and lingered on a pretty bartender. She was chatting and laughing with a middle-aged man wearing a black leather cowboy hat. She glanced up at Dean and winked, a saucy grin on her upturned lips. Their eyes locked briefly, then she returned her attention to the older man.

"Never mind." Motioning for Sam to find a seat at the bar, he said, "I'll be right back." When Sam made to follow him, Dean held up his hand. "Dude, you're so not following me into the men's room."

"Damn it, Dean, that was a banshee — "

"I know Sammy, but I can solemnly promise you I'm not going to die going to the bathroom."

Sam glared at him sullenly, hand tightening around his laptop. "Fine." He stalked to the bar and practically threw the computer on the counter.

In the restroom, Dean checked the stalls to make sure he was alone, then walked to the porcelain sink and splashed cold water on his face, brusquely raking his fingers through his hair. Dean gripped the edge of the sink, hands trembling and lower jaw quivering. He leaned closer to looked at himself in the mirror, frowning at the dark smudges under his eyes, before lowering his head.

_Get a hold of yourself, Dean, it was only a dream — it wasn't real. _The problem was it felt all too terrifyingly real. _How can I tell Sammy his big brother is afraid to go to sleep? I can't. I just have to stay awake til I figure this out. _

He splashed more water on his face, turned off the faucet and stretched his tired, aching muscles. Glancing back into the mirror, he found himself staring into the gray-blue eyes of the woman from the graveyard.

"You're going to die, Dean — you can't stop it from happening," she breathed.

Dean swung around to face her, but he was alone. _Sonuvabitch. _Turning back, he slammed his fist into the mirror. Shattered pieces of glass clattered into the sink, catching the light, and reflecting fractured images of Dean's face.

Dean massaged his throbbing knuckles, blood dripping into the sink from the cuts, then traced a path down to his wrist, feeling the erratic pulse beneath his skin. He stared long and hard at the thick, bluish-purple veins, searching for something that wasn't there.

_No. I'm not going to — I would never . . . . _Shaking his head, Dean pushed the thought out of his mind.

At the sound of the door creaking open, Dean turned to see Sam standing there. Sam's gaze swept from the broken mirror to Dean's bloodied hand, and then fixed firmly on him, hazel eyes pleading with Dean to confide in him.

"Dean?"

"No, Sam."

"Why not?" Sam crossed his arms, brows knitting together in anger and concern. "Why won't you let me help you?"

"Because there's nothin' wrong."

"Oh, yeah? Really? Graveyard, banshee, impending death . . . just stop me when any of this stuff starts ringing a bell."

"I'm not gonna die, Sammy."

"But the ban — "

"I don't care what she said, I'm not gonna die."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Cause you won't let me." Not trusting himself to say another word, Dean quickly brushed past Sam.

The moment he was out the door, Dean's gaze lit on the bronzed-skin beauty, behind the bar. Dark glossy chestnut bangs fringed her delicate features as waves of hair cascaded over her shoulders. A slow grin twisted on his face as he took in her voluptuous curves. _A distraction, just what I need . . . and a damn beautiful distraction at that. _

Dean strode to the bar, Sam following close behind. Sam took the only seat left available, opened his computer and started researching banshees as Dean leaned against the counter and waited until he could get her attention. She turned and Dean read, _'Remember my name, you'll be screaming it later' _on the front of a black t-shirt that clung in all the right places, and smiled already feeling much better.

She dropped the towel she'd been using to clean the counter, sauntering toward them as she asked, "What'll ya have, boys?"

"A beer," Sam replied, head lowered, looking at his computer screen. "Whatever's on tap."

She nodded, then glanced over to Dean, her exotic jade eyes lingering on him for a moment, as she licked full, dewy pink lips. "And how about you, darlin'? What'll ya have?"

Dean looked at the name Mara embossed on her tag and offered his most dazzling smile. "I'd say you, sweetheart, but I don't want to sound too forward."

"Oh, very clever. Subtle with just a hint of desperation, I like that." Mara cocked a delicate brow, gesturing toward the men's room. "Tell me, did it take the whole time in the restroom coming up with that witty pickup line or was it just off the top of your head?" She laughed, the soft infectious sound causing several of the bar patrons to raise their heads and smile affectionately at her.

"Apparently I didn't need a pickup line seein' as I already caught your attention," Dean quipped, a devilish glint in his eyes.

Mara rested her elbows on the counter and leaned in closer to Dean. Her jade eyes sparkled mischievously, she bit at her lower lip, drawing his attention to the soft fullness of them. "Small country bar." She shrugged. "A girl can't help noticing the hottest guy in here."

"Oh, brother," Sam mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Get a room."

A frown creased her brow as Mara glared at him for a moment, then returned her attention to Dean. "So what can I get ya? One of my specialty drinks perhaps?" She gestured to a neon sign behind her with the names of drinks scrolled on it. "Good and strong, guaranteed you'll never have another drink like them anywhere."

Dean glanced up at the sign. "Soul Stealer, Killer Nightmare, Mind Erasers . . . yeah, those don't sound too ominous."

Mara giggled. "Yeah, they kind of do, don't they? My regulars order them, I just perfected them." Snatching a chilled mug from under the counter, she poured Sam a draft and handed it to him as she waited for Dean to decide. "So do you want to try one or do you want a beer like your friend is having . . . ah, I'm afraid I don't know your name?"

"I'm Dean." Dean gestured toward Sam. "And that's my brother, Sam."

"Nice to meet you, Sam and Dean. I'm Mara." She wiped her hands on a towel then extended one to Sam.

Sam took a quick sip of his beer, placed it on the counter, and shook her hand, smiling awkwardly. "Nice to meet you too, Mara."

Mara held her hand out to Dean. He took hold of it, swallowing hard as a sudden surge of heat coursed through his entire body. Reluctantly, he let go and looked at the sign for a few more seconds and then nodded. "Yeah, I guess I'll try one."

"Which one?"

"Surprise me." He gave her his most winsome smile.

"Trust me, I will."

Mara grabbed a shaker, dropped in some ice and then poured in several jiggers of vodka, Jager, and rum over it, before adding what looked like thick red syrup to the mixture. She shook it vigorously then poured some into two glasses.

Handing one glass to Dean, Mara held up the other. "Excuse me, everyone." Mara cleared her throat to garner everyone's undivided attention. "We have a newbie here tonight, you know the drill."

Everyone in the bar stopped what they were doing, raised their glasses and stared at Dean and Sam, waiting for Mara to continue. Scowling at Dean, Sam tried to sink down in his barstool. Dean shrugged and gave him a 'how was I supposed to know' look.

"Raise your glass, Dean," Mara lightly commanded.

Reluctantly, Dean did as she asked. "Mara, I don't really think this — "

"It's tradition, Dean." She smiled sweetly at him. Clearing her throat again, she raised her glass a little higher. "One sip to enthrall you." Everyone in the bar chimed in, taking a swig of their drinks. She took a drink and motioned for Dean to do the same. Dean quickly swallowed a mouthful, wincing as the fiery liquid burned the back of his throat. When he was finished, she continued, "One sip to poison the mind." She stopped and took another sip, followed by Dean and everyone else in the bar except for Sam who stared in open-mouth incredulity at his brother. "One sip to ensnare you." By now, Dean knew what he was supposed to do, and quickly took a long gulp of the intoxicatingly sweet liquid. "One sip to make you mine . . . and then the nightmares begin."

Dean drained the last of the drink from his cup and slammed the glass down on the counter. He grinned at Sam, definitely feeling more relaxed than he'd had in a long time. "Can I get another?"

"Sure thing, darlin'."

Sam leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "Damn it, Dean! What the hell do you think you're doing?" he whispered, so Mara couldn't hear him. "We're supposed to keep a low profile. Remember?"

"Would ya give me a break, dude? I'm just tryin' to have a little fun for a change." Dean took a long sip of the drink Mara placed in front of him. "Would it really kill you to enjoy yourself for once, instead of having your geekboy nose stuck in that damn computer all the time?"

"I was just trying to — "

"I know what you were trying to do, Sammy. I'm just sick of hearing about it." Dean raked his fingers through his hair, aggravated.

Sam threw his hands up in the air, a deep, angry scowl on his face as he shook his head. "You know what, Dean, do whatever the hell you want!" He pushed away from the barstool. "I'm going back to the motel."

"Whatever, dude."

Sam stared at him for a moment, lips a hard line against his teeth, brows pulling together in a frown.

"Fine."

Snatching his laptop off the bar, Sam stalked away, sidestepping the buxom woman in the low-cut blouse, who nearly stumbled over him. At the door, Sam glanced back at Dean, the muscle in his jaw jerking erratically, sad hazel eyes locking with stormy green ones briefly, before he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

In a moment of indecision, Dean prepared to follow Sam, but at the sound of Mara's seductive voice, all thoughts of leaving left him. He turned back to face her, his breath catching as his vision blurred.

"What's the matter with your brother?" She brushed glossy chestnut locks away from her angelic face.

"Oh, Sammy?" Dean thumbed a finger toward the door. "Nothin'." He grinned as he picked up his drink and gulped down the last of it. His stomach lurched violently in protest. "That's him in a good mood, you should see him when he's really brooding."

"Ah, one of those." Mara nodded, gesturing toward his empty glass. "We'll be closing soon, care for another before we do?"

"Sure, I'll be right back."

"All right. I'll be waiting."

Dean staggered to the restroom, the room shifting in and out of focus. He swallowed hard against the acrid bile rising in his throat. _What the hell's the matter with me? I only had two drinks._

He'd barely made it to the toilet before he'd started heaving violently, dropping to his knees as pain wracked his entire body. _Oh, God, Sammy, where are you? I need you._

The muscles in his stomach clenched in knots as he threw up again, tasting blood in the back of his mouth. Dean blinked hard several times, trying to clear the sparks of bright light floating in front of his eyes. When his vision began to clear, Dean's heart leapt painfully into his throat, his body trembling uncontrollably as he looked around the tiny stall. Blood was splattered everywhere.

_Damn it, Sam! I promise you, I'm not going to die in this bathroom. _

Slowly, muscles straining with the effort, he struggled to his feet. His mind reeled as he tried to grasp a reason why he should feel so violently ill. _Sonuvabitch — Mara's toast. What had she said . . . one sip to poison the mind. _Dean squeezed his eyes shut tightly as more pain tore through his body. _One sip to ensnare. _Dean lurched for the door, using what little strength he had left to open it up. _One sip to make you mine. _He braced against the doorframe. Sweat streaming down his face, he stared at the ominously empty bar and then up at Mara who sat perched atop the bar.

_Then the nightmare begins. _Dean's knees buckled, giving out, his back sliding down the cool wall, head lulling to the side. He watched helplessly as she hopped off the counter and strolled toward him.

Mara squatted beside him, elbows on her knees. "You were strong, Dean. I'll give you that much. But no one can run from me forever." She leaned in and licked the blood from his lips, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. She bit through the soft flesh, Dean screamed out in agony as blood spilled down her chin.

"You taste damn good, Dean." She stood, dragged him to his feet and hauled him toward the entrance of the tavern. "But I'm more interested in your nightmares."

"Sammy — "

Mara's demonic laughter echoed through the stillness of the empty bar. "He doesn't even exist anymore. You know that. It's just you, me and your nightmare now."

Furiously shaking his head, Dean tried desperately to break free of her clawing grasp, to no avail.

"I won't go back there — I won't." He blinked hard, eyelids growing heavy. His thoughts grew fuzzier and more scattered as each second passed. _I've got to stay awake. I can't let her win._

Mara slammed him against the wall, pressed her body to his, warm breath against his ear. "Tell me, Dean, how does it feel to know that in the end you'll be viewed as pathetic by everyone you ever knew? That the great Dean Winchester will not die by the hand of a demon, but by his own?"

"I'm gonna kill you, you evil Bitch." Dean's head slumped to the side as darkness found him, but even in his sleep he heard her taunt.

"You can't kill a nightmare, Dean, but it sure as hell can kill you."

Chapter notes...hey, if you like it, let me know . . . lol! I live for these reviews;)


	3. Chapter 3

So, this chapter was kind of hard to write...hopefully I managed to make it believable...let me know what you think.

Spoilers: _In My Time of Dying_ and _Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things_

_Chapter Three_

_You said you'd protect me — watch out for me — you lied! You should be dead instead of me!_

"Sammy!" Dean screamed, bolting upright in his bed. The covers were thrown to the floor in a heap as he leapt to his feet wild-eyed gaze searching frantically for Sam. Tangled sheets lay in a crumpled heap on Sam's bed, the pillow tossed carelessly to the floor. Dean let out a sigh of relief. _It was just another dream. _

The motel room lay shadowed in darkness, a small shaft of light coming from beneath the bathroom door. Dean could hear the steady rhythm of the shower running. _There he is. Sammy's okay._ His heartbeat slowed its erratic pace as Dean sat on the edge of the bed and glanced at the clock. 5:17 a.m. _Sammy must've had another nightmare. _

Cold sweat trickled down his back, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end. Dean clutched his chest, a burning pressure constricting his ability to draw a deep breath. He shivered. Rubbing tired eyes with the palms of his hands, he tried to shake the feeling this dream had somehow been different from the others. _I shouldn't have gone to sleep . . . should've stayed awake._

_I need to see him. Just to be sure. _Dean crossed the small expanse, stood at the door for a moment, trembling hand resting on the handle. He looked at Sam's bed, running his hand along the length of his face. _If I barge in there, he's so gonna think I've gone mental. _

Knocking on the door, Dean waited. When Sam didn't immediately respond, Dean rapped harder, his heart skipping a beat. "Sam, you okay?"

"I'll be out in a sec," came a muffled reply.

Dean let out a pent breath, about to turn, the door creaked open, light streaming out casting long shadows. "Must've been a pretty bad one — " His voice caught in his throat, mouth suddenly dry as desert sand.

"Y-you're not real." He took a step backward. "You died."

"Dean, can we not do this again today . . . not today."

Dean blinked hard. _Wake up, Dean. You're still dreaming._ When he opened his eyes, his father was staring at him, dark eyes narrowed, concern clearly etched on his usually stoic features.

"Where's Sammy?" Dean's voice rose in panic as he searched the room for any sign of his brother. "I wanna see him now! Where is he?"

His father took a tentative step toward him, arm outstretched.

"No." He held up a hand in warning. "You stay away from me." Dean retreated as John continued to advance in slow measured steps. Dean's gaze darted from his Dad to the pillow, and the knife concealed beneath. Before his father could reach him, Dean lunged onto the mattress, threw the pillow away, grabbing for the blade. _Where the hell is it? It's always here._

"It's gone."

Dean whipped around to face him, eyes accusatory. "Where the hell's my knife?"

John stared at Dean, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He shoved his fists in the pockets of his blue jeans. "It hasn't been there since. . . ." He turned away from Dean, went to the dresser and retrieved his watch and silver ring. "It isn't there anymore. You know that."

Dean vaulted off the bed, stormed over to his father, grabbed him by the shirt and swung him around. "Since when?" John refused to meet his steely gaze. "I want my knife! And Sammy! Now!"

John yanked free of Dean's grasp. "Easy, dude, I told you last night, we'd go an' see him today."

Dean shook his head emphatically. "You're lying. I wasn't here last night. I was with Sam. We were. . . ." his voice trailed off as he tried desperately to recall what he and Sam had been doing the night before.

John brushed past Dean, sat, elbows on knees, on the small couch near the window, and sighed deeply. "You were with me all night, Dean."

Eyes mere slits, Dean swung to face his father, shaking his finger. "No! No, I would've remembered that." Stalking back and forth, he scrubbed his face with open palms. "I was with Sam. There was a woman . . . at least I think there was . . . I-I promised I wouldn't die in the bathroom." Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean's fingers curled tightly around his hair. _This isn't real. He isn't real. _

"You're not making any sense, Dean. Have you taken your medicine yet?"

Dean rounded on him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "My what?"

"Your medication." John gestured toward several small orange bottles on the bedside table that until now, Dean hadn't noticed. "Dr. Gordon warned there would be setbacks if you didn't take them."

"Dr. Gordon? Setbacks? What the hell are you talkin' about? I'm not takin' any damn medicine."

John was on his feet in a shot, stalking to Dean. He grabbed Dean's hands, twisted them so his palms were upright. "I won't let you do this to yourself again. You will take your medicine even if I have to force it down your throat."

Dean stared at his wrists. Long, raised, scars ran vertically over his veins. The color drained from his face, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His knees buckled. John caught him before he fell, hooked a strong arm around his waist and guided him to a chair.

Dean traced one of the marks with his fingertips, breathing hard, the pressure in his chest increasing. _I remember these — why the hell do I remember having these?_

John went into the bathroom, returning with a cup of water. Stopping at the table, he picked up bottle after bottle until he'd found the one he was searching for, and gave it to Dean.

"Here, take this," John ordered, in an authoritative tone Dean had never been able to refuse.

Dean took the bottle and read the label. "Haloperidol. What's this for?"

"It will help keep things straight in your mind."

Dean glanced from his father to the Haloperidol and then his gaze fixed firmly on John, an angry scowl twisting on his lips. His fingers tightened around the bottle. _I don't need to keep things straight in my mind. This isn't real. _

"No!" He whipped the bottle at the wall, it slammed into a mirror, which shattered, pieces of broken glass falling to land soundlessly on the carpeting. Dean stared at the shards of reflective glassand then down at his fist. He rubbed his knuckles pensively. _The mirror . . . I broke the mirror. Sam was there. Where were we? _

"I know what's real and this isn't it — you're not real."

"If you do, tell me where your brother is?" John challenged, lips a tight line against his teeth, his brows pulled together in anger.

"I-I'm not sure," Dean reluctantly admitted.

His father's features softened as did his tone. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"I said I don't . . . but I will find him. You can't stop me — I won't let you."

John stared at him, a deep frown creasing his brow. He grabbed his keys off the table. "Get dressed. I'll take you to see Sam." Marching to the door, John glanced at Dean, opened his mouth, as if he was about to say something then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Dean walked to the broken glass, bent and picked up a piece, staring long and hard at it.

An image of pale gray-blue eyes came into focus. _You're going to die, Dean — you can't stop it from happening. _The sound of shattering glassand a door creaking. _Sam . . . Sam asking me to let him help. _

Running his finger along the sharp edge, he felt the cold sting as the glass sliced through his index finger, blood dripped onto the floor. _Blood . . . Blood splattered everywhere. _

_None of this makes any sense. It's like trying to remember a dream._ In aggravation, Dean threw the shard back to the floor and hurried to get dressed.

Closing the door behind him, Dean instinctively glanced around the half-empty parking lot, before starting toward his father. John leaned against his truck, head lowered, toying with his silver ring. The early morning sunlight glistened off the vehicle's polished black exterior. Dean scanned the parking lot, looking for the Impala, frowning when he couldn't find it.

"Where's my car?"

His father glanced up, a sad, weary expression on his face. "Get in the truck, Dean."

"Not until you tell me where the Impala is."

"It's at Bobby's." John got into the truck without saying another word.

Dean's gaze swept the parking lot once more then settled on his father. _Why the hell is my car at Bobby's? And why does he seem so real? Everything about him is damn near perfect._

"No," he muttered under his breath. "This can't be real." _But it feels so damn real._ "Something is messing with my mind. But what?"

Honking the horn, John motioned for Dean to get in. Dean stood for another moment, undecided. _If I go with him, does it mean I'm accepting this? _He turned and glanced at the motel, not actually seeing it, but beyond it to the medication on the table.

_It will help keep things straight in your mind._

He peered down at his wrists, searching for the memory of how they occurred. Pain, so desolate and so profound bubbled to the surface. Slamming his eyes shut, horrifying visions flashed through Dean's mind. Dean dropped to his knees, doubled over, arms wrapping tightly around his stomach.

"_Do it," a voice whispered in his ear. _

_Outside, someone was pounding on the door, calling to him. Dean slid down the wall, coming to rest on the cold tile floor, a straight-edge razor in his left hand. _

"_Do it," came the voice again, this time from inside his head. "You owe him that much. He died because of you. _

"_No, I — "_

"_It's the only way you'll be forgiven, Dean_."

_Dean struggled to fight against the voice in his mind, but he was too tired, too lost. It hurt way too much. His heart ached with a longing he couldn't escape. And the nightmare never ended. It never would. He wanted it to be over. More than anything he needed to be forgiven._

_He bit down hard, a cry escaping his lips as the blade sliced vertically through his flesh, blood spurting, quickly covering the floor. His fingers tingled, a numbness making it difficult to cut into his left wrist. _

_The bathroom door slammed open, his father towering over him, an expression of shocked horror on his face._

"_Oh, God, Dean. What the hell did you do?" Grabbing two towels, John quickly wrapped them around Dean's wrists, blood soaking through. He flipped open his cell and dialed 911, his voice growing fainter as Dean rapidly lost his will to stay awake._

_Dean's vision blurred as he stared at his father. "I-I'm sorry. Needed it to end. . . ." _

"Dean! Dean — answer me!" John stood beside him, hauling him to his feet.

"I needed it to end . . . needed him to know I was sorry," Dean mumbled vacantly as he rubbed his wrist.

"It's all right." His father nodded in understanding, placing a protective arm around Dean's shoulder. "He forgives you." He helped Dean into the truck then went around and got in.

John was quiet as they drove, for which Dean was thankful.Dean glanced sideways, noted his Dad's tightly clenched jaw and deep brooding gaze. _No wonder he thinks I should be medicated. Why would've I done that to myself? _Dean leaned against the window, staring out, trying to erase the images from his mind. His lungs burned as he drew in shallow breathes.

The steady motion of the truck finally lulled him into a fitful sleep. Deep jade eyes mocked him, taunting from somewhere just beyond reach. A dark veil hid Sam from view but he could hear him calling, begging Dean to let him help. _Sammy, where are you? _

Dean awoke with a start, his father nudging him awake. He rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and index finger to clear his vision.

"We're here, Dean."

Staring at row after row of grave markers, Dean shook his head, stomach clenching. "Sam's not here."

"He's buried next to your mother." John got out of the truck, walked around to Dean's side and opened the door, a resigned look on his face. "He died a year ago today." He let out a deep shuddering breath and continued, "You need to make peace with his death or you'll never get better."

_Sam can't be dead. I would feel it if he was. _

"He's not dead!" Dean receded toward the driver's side, unspent tears glistening in his eyes. "You died, not him."

John closed his eyes and turned away. "I realize you wish it was me . . . wish it were you, but it doesn't change things."

"I'll prove to you, he isn't dead." Dean leapt from the truck dodged past his father and ran to his mother's grave. The sight of two grave markers stopped him dead in his tracks.

_Sam Winchester_

_Beloved son and brother_

_1983-2006_

"No." Dean edged his way to the grave, dropped to his knees, clenching his fist, unshed tears stinging his eyes. "This can't be real."

"He died the night we were in the car accident," came his father's strained voice. "The police said they found his body in the woods nearby."

"I-I don't understand." Dean peered up at his father, his vision blurring with tears.

"The demon got him, Dean. The Colt and the last bullet were gone . . . Sam's skin stripped clean from his body."

"That's not how it happened." Dean's anguished gaze strayed to the gravestone. "He — he was fine. I almost died — you made a deal to save me. You died, not him."

John rested his hand on Dean's shoulder. "I wish that were true, but it's not."

Dean glanced around trying to grasp at anything he could to make it not true. To make his brother be alive . . . alive and here . . . with him. He spied a tree. The last time he'd seen it, it was dead and so was the ground surrounding it. Now it flourished, green leaves blowing in the breeze.

_Angela Mason. I was here with Sam after Dad died._

Crawling to his mother's grave, Dean dug frantically at the ground with his fingers, mud caking under his nails. _He buried it here somewhere. It has to be here._

"What are you doing?" His father's voice was tinged with concern. Dean saw the panic in his Dad's eyes before he had a chance to conceal it.

"Sam and I were here after . . . I didn't want to come. He said it seemed like the right thing to do." Dean drew a deep breath, coughing with the strain it put on his aching lungs. "I waited right there." He gestured toward the tree, biting at his lower lip. "He — he buried your dog tags. Thought she should have them."

John reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a chain, sunlight reflecting off the silver. "You mean these?"

A hard lump formed in Dean's throat as he stared at the tags. "No — I saw him." Dean leaned against his mother's gravestone, rubbing his forehead, trying in vain to figure out how his father got the dog tags back if Sam buried them. "I know I did. We were here and Sammy buried them."

John peered down at his chain then up at Dean. His pensive expression and chilly silence spoke volumes.

"Something — some sort of demon is doing this to me. I'm not crazy. I'm not . . . You have to believe me."

His father was quiet for a long time, a frown on his face. "I believe you miss your brother, Dean. Miss him so much that you've created a whole world just for you and him. But it isn't real and it's killing you. I can't allow it to happen." He turned and slowly walked away, calling over his shoulder, "I don't want to have to send you back to the asylum, but if you don't snap out of this I'll have no choice."

Dean scrabbled to his feet, his brow furrowing in anger. _A mental institution? He had me locked up in a funny farm? _He hurried and caught up to his father. Grabbing him by the shirt, he forced John to face him. "What do you mean, no choice?"

John took a calming breath. "Dr. Gordon seems to think your psychosis is getting worse. Your breaks from reality are steadily increasing and he's afraid you'll harm yourself again."

"And what do you think?"

His father was as close to crying as he'd ever seen him. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He shrugged. "I don't know." John swallowed hard, drawing in a staggering breath. "I just wish I had my son back — both of them."

He wasn't sure if this was John or not. How could he be sure of anything now? But real or not, Dean didn't mean to hurt his father. He still loved and needed him. And it killed Dean, to see his normally strong father so close to losing it. "M'okay Dad," he lied.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah." Dean forced a smile for his Dad's benefit.

"All right." John clapped him on the shoulder and gestured toward the truck. "Let's go get somethin' to eat."

As if in response to his father's question, Dean's stomach growled and he realized he hadn't eaten since early in the afternoon the day before. Dean nodded, the thought of food and good strong coffee sounding delicious.

He glanced at Sam's grave. _I'll figure this out, Sammy. You can't be dead. I won't let you be dead._

He followed his father to the truck, got in, closed the door, all-the-while thinking of what kind of demon could alter his reality. _There has to be one. It's the only answer. Damn, Sammy, I need you and your stupid computer now._

John started the engine, put the truck in gear and drove toward the cemetery entrance, Dean staring obliviously out the window. Endless rows of meaningless stone passed without note and Dean felt only numbing unreality . . . Broken in a single moment at the sight of a girl with curling copper tresses kneeling beside a grave. He couldn't see her face but knew she was weeping, could hear her wailing sobs in his mind.

_They're all dead you know . . . And so are you, Dean. So are you . . . you just don't know it yet._

_A banshee!_

"Stop!" Dean ordered, opened the door and lunged out before his father had a chance to react.

Dean rushed to the banshee, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Frightened blue-gray eyes met his angry green-eyed glare. "You're doing this to me! Make it stop, or I swear to God I'll rip you apart limb by limb!"

"I — you're hurting me," she cried. "Let go of my arm." The girl tried to wriggle free, but Dean tightened his hold.

"Where's Sammy! Give him back to me now!"

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about." She pounded his chest with her fist, digging her nails into his flesh when she couldn't escape.

"You said I was going to die — how am I going to die? Tell me!"

"Dean!" Flinging Dean brusquely aside, John threw his arms protectively around the frightened girl.

"She's a banshee, Dad! Sam and I saw her in a graveyard last night."

John swung to look at her. Her body trembled with fear, glistening tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. He glared at Dean, a tight-lipped scowl on his face. "She's just a girl, Dean. Just a terrified girl. She's not a banshee."

"No, she told me I was gonna die." Dean ducked under his father's arm and grasped hold of her again, shaking her forcefully. "Tell him!"

"Leave me alone, please," she begged, wide eyes pleading with John. "Make him stop!"

"Dean, release her!" his father ordered in his stern hunter's tone.

Jerking his hands away, Dean stared into her eyes, his chest heaving with the exertion of each breath. "I need to know how I'm gonna die. She knows! She knows Sam is still alive."

John pointed to the truck. "Go wait in the truck, Dean."

"But — "

"I don't want to hear it. Just get in the truck, I'll be right there."

Dean glared at his father for a moment then stormed away, hating the sound of John's voice apologizing to the banshee. Making excuses to the monster who'd warned of his death. _How the hell can he be making excuses to that bitch. It's just not right._

"I'm so sorry, Miss. Dean . . . well, Dean hasn't been well since his brother died."

"I-I understand." She sniffled. "It's really hard to lose someone you love."

"He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

John marched to the truck. "Get in!"

Dean reluctantly complied. _There's no sense arguing with him when he's this angry. _

His father brusquely raked his fingers through his short dark hair. "Damn it, Dean! You could've hurt her."

"No, Dad, I could've killed her . . . would've killed her if you hadn't stopped me. She's a ban— "

John silenced him with a sharp gesture. "I don't want to hear it." He put the truck in gear, roared the engine and peeled out, kicking up dust.

Dean glanced back at the banshee. _I don't care what he thinks. I know what she is. _

The banshee stared at him, holding his gaze. She pointed two fingers at her temple and jerked her thumb down. A sad smile graced her porcelain face, then she disappeared in a wisp of black smoke.


	4. Chapter 4

_so this was another tough chapter to write, hope you enjoy...as always please let me know what you think...thanks!!_

_Chapter Four_

_So, I'm gonna blow my brains out. _A wry smile twisted on Dean's face. _Note to self, steer clear of guns. _A shiver of relief coursed through Dean's body at the sight of the banshee disappearing. _She's real. I knew she was real . . . it isn't all in my mind._ Seeing her was the first thing that made any sense.

_A banshee . . . a freakin' banshee. _Dean let out a short rasping laugh. She'd become his only lifeline. His only link to reality. _Huh, how's that for irony. _

His father had seen her. _Of course he didn't think she was a banshee, but that doesn't matter._ All that mattered was he'd seen her, which meant she was real. And if she was real then so were all the other things he remembered. _If she's real then this can't be. Can it?_

Dean clenched his fists, hating the helpless feeling that something else was controlling his fate. He was the one always in control, always looking out for Sammy. Now he didn't know where Sammy was, or what was happening. _And why the hell is something trying to make me think he's dead instead of Dad? It doesn't make any sense unless — Sammy!_

His stomach twisted thinking of Sam being all alone._ What if something is trying to split us up so it can get to him? _He'd been so busy trying to prove to himself he was dreaming, he forgot Sam might be in just as much danger if not more. _Sonuvabitch! I've gotta find Sam before something happens to him._

_I don't think a banshee has that kind of power. _But if not the banshee then who? Some kind of demon? _Damn it, Sammy, why aren't you here! I hate doing research._ _I can't ask Dad._ _He'll think I've totally cracked up. _But someone had to know. Someone who knew as much about demons as his father.

_Bobby! _Dean grinned. _Why didn't I think of him sooner?_

Daring a sidelong glance at his father, the smile slid from Dean's face. John rested his elbow against the window frame, fingers gently kneading his forehead, tired eyes trained on the road ahead

Dean turned away to stare out the window, seeing nothing, lost in thought_. This isn't fair to him. He did the best he could. Dad may not have always been around, but he always made sure Sam and I could stay together. Always protected us. Hell, he's protected so many people and its cost him everything. _Dean scrubbed his open palm across his face, sighing regretfully._ It really doesn't matter if it's in my reality or this one, he's still ends up without either of his sons. _

"Dean," his father's voice startled him out of his thoughts. "You wanna go inside or would you rather I get us some takeout?"

Dean glanced up at a sign flashing, Arlene's Country Diner, in bold pink neon.

_There was a neon sign. Not this one. Where was it? Sam was angry. He left me there. Damn it, why can't I remember?_

He squeezed his eyes shut, searing pain ripping through his skull. His chest constricted painfully making it almost impossible to take a full breath. Balled fists pressed to his temples, Dean fought the overwhelming nausea.

John's powerful hand cupped around Dean's neck, calloused fingers gently kneading away the ache. "You okay, dude?"

"She had jade eyes."

His father drew back to stare at him. "Who had jade eyes?"

"I-I don't know."

"Maybe I should call Dr. Gordon."

"No! I don't need any shrink messing with my mind." _Something else is already doing a bang up job of that._

"Dean."

There was that sound in his voice again. The uncertainty, the warning. It hurt to see John didn't trust him. Hurt that he watched him relentlessly, a wary, fearful expression on his face whenever he'd thought Dean wasn't looking. _It's like he's waiting for me to . . . to what? Slit my wrists again — blow my brains out? God, does he think I am that crazy? _

"I said no!" Dean grimaced, shaking his head. "Dad, I don't want to argue with you. You know that." When John scowled in response, Dean added, "I just can't go to a shrink."

Bad enough his Dad thought he was crazy. That he was forced to go against John. Inside he seethed at the idea of something — someone — trying to make him choose. To choose between a life with his Dad, real or imaginary, or a life with Sam. _Why does it have to be a choice? Why can't I have it the way it's supposed to be — the three of us?_

He'd been around his father long enough to read his expressions, and Dad's stern gaze could only mean he was well beyond angry, heck angry would have been nice compared to what he really was.

"Look, Dad, I'm okay. I'm just tired."

John pursed his lips, and conceded with a curt nod.

He gestured toward the small diner. "So you wanna go in?"

"Naw, I'll wait here."

"All right, I'll be back shortly." John got out of the truck, and headed into the restaurant.

Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, Dean bit at his lower lip, watching as his father flipped open his cell phone and made a call. _Damn it. He's calling that shrink anyway. _Stroking his lower jaw with his hand, Dean frowned. _I ain't goin' to no damn shrink. _

Dean slid over to the driver's side, turned the key, the engine roaring. He sped out of the parking lot, leaving his father behind. _Sorry, Dad, but I have to find Sam._ Without a shadow of a doubt, Dean knew if someone heard him rambling on about banshees and his supposedly dead brother being alive, they'd have him committed. _I have to figure this out, and I can't if I'm locked away in some nuthouse. _

In the rearview mirror, Dean noticed John running out of the building, waving his arms and yelling something to him. Dean turned the radio up a little louder, Metallica blaring, drowning out the sound of his Dad's voice and also alleviating the stab of guilt eating at him for stealing his father's truck. _God, actually feel bad about this. It's not like it's really Dad . . . or his truck. I have nothin' to be sorry for . . . this isn't real._

_Dr. Mason? _The name came to mind so rapidly, it took Dean a moment to figure out why. _Of course! He has to remember Sam and me, after I barged into his house and accused him of bringing his daughter back from the dead. _

It took a moment for it to register that he was going in the opposite direction of Dr. Mason's house. _Damn it. _Grimacing, Dean slowed the truck and did a u-turn, cringing at the thought of having to pass by his father, knowing how pissed he was going to be.

John stood, arms crossed, at the edge of the road, glowering at Dean. Dean sank down in his seat as he gunned the engine and sped on past him. He stifled a short laugh as his father's look of anger turned to one of stunned incredulity_. Man, Sammy, you would've loved seeing that._

Pulling up to Dr. Mason's, Dean killed the engine and stared at his house. Dean sighed in relief. The home appeared exactly the same as he'd remembered, two stories, wide staircase fanning outward, white double columnstwo windows flanking the door.

Dean got out of the truck. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the landing and then tentatively knocked on the door and waited. He heard scuffling feet as someone crossed the hardwood floor inside, and then the door opened. He swallowed hard, biting back the laughter escaping from his lips when he saw thelook of shocked horror on Dr. Mason's face. _Oh yeah, he remembers me._

Dr. Mason tried to slam the door shut, but Dean stuck out his arm and held onto to it firmly.

A short, balding man glared at him. "If you don't leave now, I'll call the police."

"Look, sir, I just want to talk," Dean said, forcing a fake smile and trying to take on the tone Sam used to charm people. _Damn, Sammy, you always make this look so easy. _"It'll only take a moment of your time."

The older man hesitated, a slight tick in his jaw, hand visibly trembling. He opened the door wider, and stood firmly in front of it, arms crossed, barring entrance. "What do you want?"

Now that Dean had the man's attention, he didn't know what to say. _Anything I say is gonna come off sounding completely crazy._ "Do you remember the last time I was here?" It sounded ridiculous even to Dean's ears, and the incredulous look on Dr. Mason's face, spoke volumes. Obviously, the man remembered him. "I mean when my brother and I came to see you after your daughter died."

Dr. Mason's brows furrowed, brown eyes staring intently at Dean. "Look, you've upset my family enough as it is and I'm not going to stand here and go through this with you again."

"Please, I just need to know if you remember my brother coming here with me?"

The doctor let out a deep exasperated sigh. "No, you were alone. Alone and talking to yourself. Okay? Can I go back inside now?"

Dean felt as if the doctor had just punched him squarely in the gut and for an old man he packed quite a wallop. "That's not possible," he choked out, trying to catch his breath, his lungs burning with the effort. "You're lying. Sam was here with me."

"You need serious help, son." At the sound of footfalls coming down the stairs, Dr. Mason grew more agitated, his nervous gaze shifting from Dean to whoever was on the stairs and back again. "You have to go. And tell your father, next time I won't hesitate having you — "

"Dad, who's at the — " the girl's voice stopped mid-sentence as she came to the door, her face blanching. Soft, pale skin stood in sharp contrast to her dark wavy hair and enigmatic eyes. "Wh-what's he doing here?"

Dean took a back step, bracing against the railing. _Angela? No, that's not possible . . . she's dead. I staked her through the heart myself. _Dean gestured toward her, hand trembling. "You — you died. You were in a car accident and you died. I'm sure of it."

"Enough!" Dr. Mason bellowed, wrapping his arm protectively around his daughter. "I'm calling the police."

Dean shot forward, gripping the doctor's shirt. "What the hell did you do? Some sort of demonic ritual to bring her back? I staked her to her coffin once I can do it again!"

"You're out of your mind! Angela, call the cops." Dr. Mason's voice rose dramatically as Dean slammed him into the door. "Now, Angela!"

Angela slipped from her father's grasp and ran to the phone on the long table in the foyer and quickly dialed. "This is Angela Mason. The man who's been stalking me is back and is threatening my father . . . yeah, that's the address . . . yes, I'll stay on the line . . . please hurry!"

Still holding the phone to her ear, Angela rushed to her father's side. "Leave him alone . . . he hasn't done anything to you."

_Damn it, what the hell am I doing_? Dean stared into their terrified faces, his breath catching in his throat as he forced trembling hands to release the older man. "I'm . . . I didn't. . . ."

The distant sound of sirens quickly silenced Dean. Dean rushed down the steps, struggling to catch his breath beneath the crushing pressure weighing upon him. He leapt into the truck, revving the engine, he peeled out, tires squealing, the scent of burnt rubber filling the air. Dean sped away, tires screeching in protest as he skidded around a turn on two wheels and then blew through a stop sign, scattering several college students crossing the road. He raced out of town and headed toward the cemetery.

"Dean, slow down. You're gonna get us killed driving this fast."

At the sound of Sam's voice, Dean slammed on the brakes, jerking the truck to the side of the road, coming to a grinding halt in front of the cemetery.

Clenching the wheel in a white-knuckled grip, Dean cast a sidelong glance at the passenger's side. Sam sat staring at him, brows tightly drawn together, a scowl on his face.

Dean blinked hard, hoping the image of his brother would disappear. _This isn't happening. He isn't here. I know he isn't here. _When he opened his eyes, Sammy was still there, shaking his head at him and watching him worriedly. Dean raked his fingers through his hair in utter frustration.

Thrusting the door open, Dean lunged out of the truck. Sam followed close on his heels. Dean held up a hand to stop him. "You get away from me!"

"What the hell's wrong with you, Dean? What did I do?"

The profoundly pained look in his hazel eyes was so like Sammy's Dean was forced to do a double-take. If the eyes were truly the windows of the soul then this was definitely his brother. Everything that was clearly Sam was written in those soft, mournful orbs. _But it can't be . . . he isn't here . . . this is just some freak-ass nightmare. _

Dean turned, and thrust out his arm, pointing for Sam to leave. "Just go away! You're not real — you're can't be! Something is just messing with my mind!"

"Dude, you're scarin' me." Sam edged closer. "What's wrong?" He swung Dean around to face him. "Why won't you let me help you?"

_Why won't you let me help you? Graveyard, banshee, impending death . . . just stop me when any of this stuff starts ringing a bell?_

Dean glanced around at the cemetery and then at Sam, pinching the bridge of his nose as an intolerable pressure built inside his head. _Everything is blurring together . . . I couldn't have made it all up — I just couldn't have. _

Dean drew in a shallow breath, coughing with the effort. "Sam, what were we doing yesterday?"

Cocking a brow, Sam cast a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"

"Yesterday . . . where were we?"

"We were headed to South Carolina, and then for some reason you turned around and came here."

Shaking his head, Dean muttered, "Why the hell would I do that?"

"I don't know, Dean." Sam shrugged. "You haven't spoken two words to me until now."

_This makes no sense._ "Do you remember Angela Mason?"

Sam smirked. "Yeah, how could I forget. Full on zombie action. She broke my hand . . . remember?"

_Yeah, she did, didn't she? _Dean stared at him for a moment, nodded, and then stalked away, heading toward Angela's grave.

Gale winds gusted through the trees, bent branches dipping low to the ground as ominous storm clouds swept in, a gloom spreading through the stillness of the cemetery. In the distance, Dean could hear the low rumble of thunder. By the time he reached the spot where Angela should have been buried, the first sprinklings of what promised to be one helluva storm, issued forth. _This day couldn't get any better, could it?_

Dean pivoted, taking everything in. His mother's grave. Sam's grave. Numerous other grave markers, trees, bushes, flowering shrubs, but no gravestone for Angela Mason. _It was right here. _He jabbed his finger toward the ground. _Sam saw it. He knows I'm not making this up._

"Sammy!" Dean hollered. When Sam didn't respond, he yelled louder. "Damn it, Sam, answer me!"

No response.

Dean sprinted through the pouring rain, feet sloshing in the rapidly forming puddles, mud caking on his pants, as he searched frantically for his brother. He reached the truck. No Sam. With aching slowness, Dean circled the vehicle, aching with the certainty clutching at his heart. Sam wasn't there.

_I knew he wasn't real. _

Dean dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, eyelids closed, rainwater streaming down his face.

"Come and get me, damn it!" he cried out to the banshee. "I know you're here! You're real," he sobbed brokenly.

He doubled over, praying she would heed his call, praying he could just let go of this strange new reality and follow her cry and find some peace at long last.


	5. Chapter 5

_so another fun filled chapter torturing poor Dean's mind!! hope everyone enjoys!! let me know what you think!! thanks for reading!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Five_

Dean lay hunched on the ground, unaware of the passage of time or the water pooling around him, clothes drenched, face smeared with mud, waiting, hoping, praying for — _for what? Sam? My sanity? Death? Anything is preferable to this._

_Sammy's not coming. If he's even alive. _Slowly, Dean dragged himself to his feet and trudged around the truck, head hung low, every jarring step wracking his body with excruciating pain. He got in and sat staring out as heavy rain pelted the window. _How could've I made it all up? _

He looked down at his wrists, felt the raised scars. _If this isn't real, why do I remember doing this? Remember_ _the pain I felt . . . the loss? _

Folding his arms over the steering wheel, Dean leaned forward and rested his head against them, his eyes stinging with unspent tears. _Did you really die that night, Sammy? Did I make this all up . . . all of it? _

Head still cradled in his arms, Dean turned slightly to glance out the side window, trees and the drizzling rain impeding his view. _It was raining that day . . . raining like it is now. Dad, Bobby and I were the only ones there besides the priest. I remember smelling roses . . . white roses were covering his coffin — Oh God, why did I remember that now?_

Dean shook his head, brows furrowed. He grimaced, swallowing hard against the pain constricting his throat. "You can't be dead, Sammy." He swallowed again, fighting the tears. "But if you're not dead, why does it hurt so damn much? Why does it ache to even breathe?"

Dean reached into his father's glove compartment and pulled out a .45 his Dad kept stashed there. He palmed the gun in his shaky hand, staring at it, but not really seeing it, a wave of inexorable pain blurring his vision. A feeling of anguish so profound and so deep, it seared his soul, burning with a desire to be released.

"Sammy . . . dude, you have to give me some sort of sign that you're alive . . . something — anything! I can't take losin my mind . . . I'll fight off any demon if it means you're alive and safe."

As if in answer to his plea, he heard Sam's clear voice whispering in his thoughts as certainly as if he were at his side. "Hold on, Dean, I'm gonna find you . . . gonna save you . . . so don't you dare die on me!"

"Sammy."

"You have to trust me, Dean. You have to hold on."

Dean rolled down the window and threw the gun out into the driving rain. "Ha . . . take that you crazy, banshee bitch!" He rolled the window up, a wry smile twisting on his face as he thought about his father. "Damn, Dad is so gonna kick my ass for throwing away one of his guns."

Dean turned the key in the ignition, his eyes glistening with renewed determination. _He's alive . . . he has to be. Alive and searching for me — God, please let that be true._ Shifting into gear, Dean pulled out onto the road and headed toward Bobby's.

Night yielded to day, and Dean continued without pause, eating up the miles to Bobby's place. Sunlight filtered through the window, warming the truck, but Dean shivered, his damp clothes clinging to him.

Unfamiliar memories flashed into his mind. Memories he was almost certain had never occurred, but felt real nonetheless. He remembered more about the day they'd buried Sammy. Dean had worn his black 'Blues Brothers' suit and Sam had been buried in his, although with the closed coffin service, Sam could've just as easily been wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. A grim line formed on his lips as Dean thought of how few people had turned out for the service itself. _You deserved much better than that, Sammy . . . What the hell am I talking about? You didn't die._

Dean shuddered involuntarily, recalling the pain and isolation he'd felt being locked away in the asylum. His stomach clenching with fear and loneliness as he'd sat in a padded cell with a straightjacket restricting his movements. The nights had been the worst part . . . alone in the darkness where nightmares crept into his mind, never allowing him any peace or rest.

_These memories aren't real . . . I'm not crazy . . . I'm not. None of this stuff ever happened. I just have to remember that. It's not real. _Only he wasn't so sure now. It was getting harder and harder to deny what was right in front of him. His father, the scars, the memories, Sammy's grave. _How can I refute all those things? I can't_. _God, Bobby you better have a good answer for me._

By the time Dean pulled into Bobby's salvage yard, the sun was dipping well into the western sky. Sunlight flickered off shattered windshields casting prismatic beams of light across the dry dirt. A veritable maze of twisted metal wreckage cluttered the ground.

Dean got out of the truck. Squinting, he scanned the junkyard for any sign of the Impala. Not finding it, his gaze settled on Bobby who'd come out of his house the moment Dean had slammed the door shut.

Bobby stood leaning against the door frame, stroking his beard and staring at Dean. "Yer Dad's been lookin' for you. Said you stole that." He gestured toward the truck and laughed. "And so you have. Ol' John must've been so pissed. Would've paid good money to see the look on his face."

Dean glanced at the truck and then at Bobby. "How ya been, Bobby?"

"Doin' okay." Bobby removed his baseball cap and swiped his hand across his forehead, his stern hunter's gaze leveled on Dean. "But you didn't come all this way to find out how I'm doin', and I won't ask how you're doin' cause you look like shit." He motioned toward Dean's clothes. "What, did ya start takin' up bathin' in mud now?"

Dean looked down at his mud-caked clothing with a grin, and shrugged as he met Bobby's eyes. "Somethin' like that."

He turned and searched for his car again amongst the rubble. "Came to get the Impala and to ask for your help in finding a demon."

Bobby lowered his head, shoving his fists into his pockets. "Thought that might be the case." With a slight nod in the direction of his house, he motioned for Dean to follow him inside.

Bobby's house hadn't changed at all since the last time Dean had been there. Books and papers still lay strewn all over the entire living room, covering the tables, chairs and the floor. The scent of stale smoke lingered in the cramped room even though Dean was certain there hadn't been a fire in the fireplace in a long time.

"Here." Bobby pushed a cup of coffee into Dean's hand. "Looks as though you could you use this." Bobby went and sat on the beat up looking couch, beneath a window, tossing aside books and papers to make room.

"Still lacing it with holy water?" Dean smiled briefly.

"Naturally. Can't be too careful."

Dean stared at the cup of steaming liquid, then gulped down half the coffee in one long swallow. His empty stomach churned in protest and he felt as if he were going to throw up.

_One sip to poison the mind. _

_I drank something?_ _It made me sick. What was it? _

"Bobby, is there any demon who can alter how you perceive reality?"

Bobby swiped his open palm across his beard, not looking the least bit surprised by the question, if anything it appeared he'd expected it. "Dean . . . we've already gone through this several times."

Dean scowled. "Humor me. Act as if this is the first time I've heard it, okay?"

The old hunter regarded Dean thoughtfully for a moment then nodded. "Yeah, to some extent, all demons can alter their victim's sense of reality. But there would be glitches, easily detectable personality flaws."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, demons can't understand the concept of loving and caring for people, it's just not in their nature. So in any reality they create there would only be darkness."

Dean sank down onto a cushioned chair, feeling as if his knees would buckle at any moment. _Dad, might've been pissed as all hell at me, but I could see the love and concern in his eyes. He's done everything to try and protect me from pain, and all I've done, is continually hurt him for it. _

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

Clearing his throat, Dean bit at his lower lip, not sure if he wanted to know the answer to question he was about to ask. "How many times have I come here and asked you this?"

Bobby shrugged. "If yer includin' today, it's been five times."

"Five times," Dean choked out the words, breathing hard, feeling as if he were suffocating. "And you think I'm crazy too, don't you?"

"I think you miss your brother, Dean, and I'm sorry for what happened to him . . . and you."

Dean coughed, trying to clear his throat, the smoke-tainted air in the room weighing heavily on his aching lungs. "Where's the Impala?" He stood abruptly, needing to leave the house before he passed out from lack of oxygen.

"Dean." Bobby stood as well, concern etched in his dark eyes.

"Where is it?"

"I think you should wait for yer father to get here."

"Bobby!" Dean growled. "I want to see my car!"

Bobby nodded, shrugging, he jerked his thumb toward the back of the house. "It's out behind the house, just the way you left it."

Without waiting, Dean stormed out the front door, slamming it shut. Long purposeful strides carried him quickly around to the backyard. He stopped short, his breath catching in his throat.

_I fixed it . . . I know I fixed it, after Dad — _

Dean stared at the passenger's side, grimacing at the crushed-in framework, black paint chipped and covered with road dust, windows smashed. Dried patches of blood darkened the black leather upholstery where his father had sat and in the backseat where Dean had been laying. He trudged to the other side, his stomach twisting as he saw the door where Sam had been driving ripped from the hinges and laying in a crumpled heap on the ground beside the Impala.

_Sammy. _

On Sam's seat, amidst the dried blood from the injuries caused by the car accident, a fragile wisp of dark brown hair caught Dean's attention. With wistful attentiveness, he grasped the tuft of hair, kneading it between his fingers, tears brimming in his eyes.

_Oh God, Sammy, I'm so sorry. I should've protected you. _

"Dean," Bobby called to him, edging closer.

Dean held up his arm. "Get the hell away from me."

Bobby retreated a step. "I called John, he'll be here shortly. He's bringing Dr. Gordon with him."

"I don't need Doctor Gordon, Bobby. I just need this to make sense. Why can't I make it make sense?"

"_Because you don't want it to make sense, Dean."_ Jade eyes taunted him, a soft voice murmuring in his mind. "_Don't want to remember what really happened that night. How Sam really died."_

"He didn't die!"

"_Oh, yes he did. You were conscious. You saw the whole thing."_

"No! I didn't!" Dean snatched a crowbar off the hood of another car, gripping it tightly in both hands. "Where the hell are you, damn it! Come out and face me, bitch!"

"Dean, what's the matter with you?" Bobby yelled, concern evident in his voice.

He rounded on Bobby. "Don't you hear her?"

Bobby shook his head.

"_He had the Colt . . . you remember. He threatened the demon with it." _

His green-eyed gaze narrowed on Bobby. "You can't tell me you didn't hear that, Bobby?"

Frowning, Bobby shook his head worriedly, reaching for his cell phone. "I'm gonna call John and tell him to hurry."

"I don't need you to call my Dad, I need you to believe me — I'm not crazy! I'm not! She's some sort of demon!"

"_I'm right here, Dean."_

Dean swung around and slammed the crowbar into the front windshield of the Impala shattering the glass.

"Stop it, Dean. . . . " Bobby's voice was drowned out as the feminine voice grew louder.

"_The demon used you to get to him. You must remember the pain as it tore at your insides."_

Dean clutched his chest, struggling to breathe, his lungs on fire. "No, that's not how it happened."

"_It was killing you, Dean. The demon told Sam if he didn't give it the Colt, it would rip your heart out through your chest," the voice came again from behind him._

Twisting, Dean struck out, the crowbar colliding with nothing but air. "Show yourself, you stupid bitch!"

"_You begged Sam not to listen . . . screaming in agony as blood streamed down your chest."_

Whirling back and facing the Impala, the memory of that night came crashing down around Dean.

"_Don't you do it, Sammy! Don't you give that sonuvabitch the Colt," Dean screamed, clutching at the back of the car seat, tasting blood on his lips. _

_Illuminated in the headlights' glow, the demon raised a clawed hand, torturing Dean with its demonic power, his heart constricting against the building pressure._

"_Dean, its killing you!"_ _Sam's hold on the Colt slackened as Dean cried out in agony. "I can't let it kill you!_"

"_Shoot the bastard! Do it, Sam!"_

_Sam raised the gun and leveled it on the demon, finger on the trigger. _

"_Shoot me and your precious brother dies too," the demon taunted, laughing. _

"_Sammy!"_

"_I'm sorry, Dean." Sam cast him a sidelong glance, before returning his attention to the demon. "Release him first and I'll give you the Colt."_

_A wicked smile crossed the demon's face. "Done." _

"_Sammy! No!" Dean growled through clenched teeth, the waves of excruciating pain decreased as the demon released the viselike grip on his chest. _

_The demon ripped the Colt from Sam's grasp then seized Sam by the hair and yanked him from the car._

"_I said I'd let your brother go, I didn't say anything about you."_ _The demon slammed its fist into Sam's face sending him sprawling into the Impala. _

_The demon hauled him to his feet, Sam squirming trying desperately to break free_, _to no avail._

"_Dean . . . !" _

_Dean pushed open the door, trying to stand, his legs shaking with the effort, the world shifting precariously in and out of focus._ _He'd taken several unsteady steps before the demon finally realized he was out of the car. _

_The demon raised its arm and waved it, sending Dean crashing into the car, his head striking the unforgiving steel. _

"_Sammy." _

_White sparks danced in front of his eyes and then he was swallowed up in darkness. _

"_It was your fault, Dean_. _He died because of you. You know it's true. It's your fault he's dead."_

"No!" Dean struck out at the jade green eyes, slamming the crowbar into the Impala repeatedly, the sound of the blows striking metal echoing hollowly. "He's not dead!" He smashed the back window, shattered glass flying through the air. "He's not dead!"

"_He is. He died begging for you to save him. He tried to save you. Why didn't you save him, Dean?"_

"Sammy's alive! I know he is!" He raised the heavy tool and bashed it into the car again, metal creasing and buckling with the ferocity of his wrath.

"Dean!"

Whipping around, Dean lashed out at the sound, the crowbar connecting with something solid.

Dark eyes stared disbelievingly into Dean's stormy green one. His father's strong hands shook as they draped on either side of Dean's neck. John winced. Losing his balance, he fell into Dean's arms.

"Dean." His father's knees buckled as blood dripped down onto his collar.

"Dad?" Dean's trembling fingers touched the side of his fathers's head, pulling them away covered with blood. "Oh, God, Dad! I'm so sorry . . . I didn't — I didn't . . . Oh God, help me!"

John's eyelids fluttered briefly then closed, his body going slack in Dean's arms.


	6. Chapter 6

So, I had to export this chapter in because it wouldn't post, something wrong with the server...sorrry for any transfer errors, although I think i found most of them now, after seeing double sentence when I read it ovver on live preview...so anyway, this chapter is all about what Sam has been up to since Dean has been missing...let me know what you think...bambers;) ...lol, sorry to anyone who already might have read this chapter and thought it was a new chapter I was posting...was fixing an error i saw and somehow managed to delete the whole chapter and had to repost...

_Chapter Six_

Sam paced back and forth outside, silently fuming as he waited for Dean. The incessantly cheery blinking of the Rock 'n a Hard Place's pink neon sign silhouetted against the gloomy sky, mocked him, further adding to his fury. _Damn it! Why does he always have to be such a pain in the ass? I was only trying to watch out for him. _

He glanced at his watch, noting the time, then up at the roiling clouds gathering the impending storm. Hesitating with his hand on the door, Sam scowled. _I'm not the one who's wrong here. _He swung around, and stalked down the street toward the motel.

Halfway to the Sleep Inn the rumble of thunder became a roar as the heavens gave way to driving rain, lightning splaying across the darkened sky. Making sure his laptop case was zipped tightly, Sam clutched it protectively to his chest as he trudged through the pouring rain.

A car's headlights reflected the torrent of rain, windshield wiping swatting furiously back and forth as it sped by, a curtain of water ejected from a deep puddle along the curb, splashing Sam. Furious, he swiped the grimy water from his face. "Oh, just freakin' great! Like this night couldn't get any worse."

_I should've taken the Impala, and let him walk home in the rain, would've served him right._ Sam glowered as cold droplets trailed down his forehead and into his eyes._ What the hell's wrong with him? He knows better than to draw attention to himself. _He let out a deep aggravated sigh. _If I'd been the one, raising a toast with the locals, he would've been so pissed._

Another car raced by, dousing him again. _Huh, spoke too soon._ Throwing up his free arm, Sam gestured toward the car. "Thanks! Thanks a freakin' lot, buddy . . . needed another shower, ya jerk!"

Entering the dingy motel room, Sam slammed the door, and tread across the matted, puke-green rug, water squishing from his soaked sneakers. He angrily kicked them off, and set his laptop on the coffee-stained table. Sam peeled off his soaked t-shirt, flexing tired, aching muscles, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and to get some rest.

They're all dead you know. And so are you, Dean. So are you . . . you just don't know it yet.

The words haunted him. Raking damp strands of hair out of his eyes, Sam shook his head in disgust. _Oh, brilliant, Sam! A banshee tells your brother he is gonna die, and what do you do? You leave him alone! Real nice! _

Snatching his cell phone from his pocket, Sam hit the button for Dean's number and listened as it rang and rang.

"Come on, Dean, answer your goddamn phone."

"This is Dean Winch — "

Sam's thumb jabbed the disconnect, and he threw the phone on the bed. He snatched up a coarse motel towel and rubbed it briskly over his dripping hair and body. Dropping onto a cushioned chair he stretched his long legs, fingers drumming on the table, steady gaze trained on the cell. _Come on, Dean, call me back._

Within a minute, Sam was on his feet. Grabbing the phone, he called his brother again.

"This is Dean — "

Sam hung up, rummaged through his duffel for a dry shirt, threw it on, yanked on his wet sneakers, grabbed his hoodie and bolted out the door. _You'd better have a damn good reason for not answering your phone, Dean! And it had better not include any extracurricular activities with that bartender either. _

Sam sprinted through the rain. Strong gusts pushed hard against him, hampering his efforts; rain pelted at his back. The Rock 'n a Hard Place's blinking neon sign shone like a torrid beacon against the bleak sky. He stopped short, a quiver racing up his spine. Closed. The lights in the bar were out, the only car left in the parking lot was Dean's Impala.

Heart in his throat, Sam marched to the window, cupped his hand over his forehead and peered into the darkened tavern. Nothing stirred inside. The only light came from the jukebox and the neon signs over the bar. Carefully, he tried the door, and was surprised to find it hadn't been locked. An eerie stillness emanated from the bar as he eased inside and closed the door. Darkened shadows danced across the walls, wreaking havoc on Sam's taut nerves.

"Dean?" Sam called as he sidestepped the tables, headed toward the counter. No answer, only a deafening silence that choked the leaden air. "Dean, where the hell are you? Answer me!"

He quickly searched the bar and backroom, then strode to the bathroom. Flicking on the switch, pallid fluorescent light filled the small space. Sam stared slack-jawed at the mirror hanging on the wall above the sink. _That's not possible, Dean broke that mirror_. A tremor of panic filled Sam, his stomach clenching. _I wasn't gone more than an hour; they couldn't have cleaned this place and fixed the mirror in such a short amount of time._ _Could they?_

Sam glanced down. Rust-colored splotches dotted the white tiled floor. _Blood? _Squatting to get a closer look, he noticed they trailed from the first of the two bathroom stalls. Hand shaking, Sam pushed the door opened. His breath lodged in his throat at the sight of dried blood splattered on the walls and toilet. _Oh, God! Dean! _

Damn it, Dean, that was a banshee —

I know Sammy, but I can solemnly promise you I'm not going to die going to the bathroom.

You'd better damn well have kept your promise, Dean.

Sam stood, his steady gaze returned to the mirror. He rubbed his jaw. His brow arched in confusion. _Why the hell, did they fix the mirror, but not even bother to clean up the blood? It just doesn't make any sense. _

Chilled air swept ominously into the room, lifting a vaporous breeze Sam shivered, his frosty breath fogging the glass.He wiped away the mist, jerking involuntarily at the sight of blue-gray eyes staring at him

Sam wheeled to find he was alone. His pulse quickened, breath lifting wispy plumes. He turned to face the mirror. In the reflection, her glistening gaze remained fixed on him.

"Dean is going to die, Sam. . . . Why do you refuse to see what's right in front of you?"

"No!" Sam shook his head, glaring at the mirror. "Where's my brother!" He forced the words through clenched teeth, his chest heaving as he drew an icy breath. "If you harm him, Hell won't be big enough for you to hide!"

Mournful tears filled the disembodied eyes, her keen wailing echoing in the tiny room. Sam clamped his closed fists over his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut against the throbbing pressure building in his temples as he heard the banshee's voice inside his head.

"Reflect on the past and you shall find . . . demons and haunting delusions do bind. . . ."

Trembling, Sam clutched the edge of the sink, desperately trying to steady himself as her haunting tone and frightening images of Dean alone and suffering combined. His knees buckled, the force of Dean's torment driving Sam to his knees.

Dean's anguish, so devastatingly raw as he lay hunched on the ground in the pouring rain, seared through Sam's soul. Sam's body convulsed as his brother's pain and despair enveloped him.

"Images are not always as they seem . . . when caught between daylight and the dream. . . ."

The vision blurred and changed. Sam's stomach clenched as Dean held a gun in a shaky hand. Sam's heart pounded erratically inside his chest, dreading Dean's intentions. _Don't you do it, Dean! Don't you dare leave me!_

The vision of Dean called out to Sam and it was as if he were sitting beside him. _"Sammy . . . dude, you have to give me some sort of sign that you're alive . . . something — anything! I can't take losin my mind . . . I'll fight off any demon if it means you're alive and safe."_

"Hold on, Dean, I'm gonna find you . . . gonna save you . . . so don't you dare die on me!"

"Sammy."

"You have to trust me, Dean. You have to hold on."_"_

_Reforge the once true vision . . . shatter the illusional division. . . ."_ The banshee's voice trailed off as she wept bitterly.

The vision and the banshee vanished. The chilled air seeped from the room, replaced by stifling heat. Shivering despite the warmth, Sam gripped tightly onto the basin, struggling to his feet. Bracing himself against the doorframe, he collected himself and surveyed the tavern for anything he might have overlooked.

Long purposeful strides returned Sam to the bar. Biting at the inside of his lower lip, Sam studied the neon sign on the wall, dark eyes narrowing in anger and frustration.

Soul Stealer, Killer Nightmare, Mind Erasers . . . yeah, those don't sound too ominous.

"Yeah, like those freakin' names don't just scream, don't drink me." _Why the hell wasn't I paying closer attention? _

Sam grabbed his cell and jabbed the button to call Dean. The sound of Metallica's _Wherever I May Roam _rang loud across the emptiness and Sam jumped.

"Oh, shit!" Sam bolted across the expanse, knocking chairs over and slamming into tables as he frantically searched for his brother's cell phone. On the floor near the entrance he spotted it. He bent and snatched it off the ground. Squinting, he noticed a dark stain on the wall right in front of him. _More blood. _

"Damn it! What the hell did that banshee do to you?"

Sam whirled around and glared at the bar. _That toast! What had Mara said? _Sam racked his brain trying to recall the exact wording.

_One sip to enthrall you. __One sip to poison the mind. One sip to ensnare you. One sip to make you mine . . . and then the nightmares begin._

_If that isn't a curse of some sort, I don't know what is._ Sam slumped onto the nearest chair, trembling, feeling as if someone had sucker-punched him in the ribs. He laughed bitterly. "I just sat here like an idiot and watched as that bitch poisoned and cursed my brother. And now she's taken him to God only knows where."

Sam stood abruptly, the chair slamming to the floor with a loud thud as he headed for the door. _She only had an hour head start. But where would she take him?_ _Where do I even search?_

"In a hurry to go somewhere, darlin?" came a sickeningly sweet feminine voice from directly behind him.

Startled, Sam swung to face the banshee. Instead he found four pairs of gleaming crimson eyes trained on him. The buxom woman who'd almost fallen over him earlier in the evening smiled as the man in the black cowboy hat and the arm wrestlers cracked their knuckles, glaring hungrily at Sam.

"Um, I was just leaving." Sam hitched his thumb toward the entrance, mind racing, trying to figure out a way he could take four demons alone with only his knife and the flask of holy water.

"Oh, I don't think so," the man in the cowboy hat drawled. At his slight nod, the two burly men at his side moved ominously toward Sam. "Our Mistress would not be pleased if you were to interfere with her plans."

Sam backed slowly away, glaring at the two approaching demons. Reaching into his pocket, he grasped the flask and jerked it out. Hastily yanking off the cap, Sam threw holy water on both demons.

They swiped the droplets from their face, grinning at Sam. Depraved laughter echoed throughout the tavern as the buxom woman moved forward, twirling a lock of her flaxen hair around her clawed finger.

"You really have no idea what we are, do you?" She cooed, her simpering voice grating on Sam's nerves. "Holy water, while very effective on mere demons, means nothing to us."

The two bigger assailants grabbed Sam's arms, twisting them behind him in a viselike grip. Sam bucked and squirmed, trying to break their hold. Rearing up, he smashed his head into one of his captors, almost managing to escape. The one in the cowboy hat slammed its fist into Sam's ribcage, knocking the wind out of him. The brick wall of a beast to his right tightened its grip on Sam's arm, claws tearing through his hoodie and gouging his skin.

"Who the hell are you?" Sam bit off between gasping breaths. His brows furrowed as he struggled in vain to free himself.

"Let's just say we're the stuff of nightmares and leave it at that." She moved closer to Sam, pressing her body to his. Her tongue traced a hot, wet trail as she licked his earlobe, then whispered seductively, "Such a pretty face, every ounce of emotion so eagerly displayed for all to see. No wonder she finds herself enthralled with you."

Jerking his head away, Sam snarled, "Where did that banshee take my brother?"

"Glaistig Uaine?" The woman arched a brow and smiled. "Ah, yes. She does love playing her little games, doesn't she?" She turned her back on Sam. "You'll never find him. You see, she wanted you all to herself and he's gotten in the way once too often."

_She's lying!_ Sam seethed, clenching and unclenching his fists. _She has to be . . . this can't be my fault . . . not again. _"What would she want with me?"

The creature in the cowboy hat placed his hand on her shoulder and called her by name. "Cailleach."

She pursed her lips and regarded him with wary eyes.

"Peto Glaistig Uaine quod planto certus is can non reperio suus," he ordered.

_Damn them! He wants her to find the banshee and to make sure I can't! _Sam made one last attempt to wrest free then stood still, listening intently. Grateful he understood what they were saying . . . even more grateful they didn't know that.

"Haud Mara would non exsisto commodo si ego left vos unus per him. Is does non votum him quoque pessime vulnero," Cailleach replied in a scathing tone. Hands on hips, she glared at the older demon.

The creature laughed. "Ego spondeo non neco him."

She continued to stare menacingly at him.

"Vos operor non fides mihi?" The demon's eyes narrowed as he stared at Sam and then at Cailleach.

_So Mara doesn't want me harmed. Good to know._ Still, Sam didn't like the sinister gleam in the older assailant's eyes. It didn't seem as if it cared what their Mistress wanted._ Come on tell me where she is. Tell me where I can find Dean._

"Is can non take plus. Mara est ita iuxta attero him, mens, somes quod animus. Nos can non afford ullus erroris iam!" Cailleach breathed angrily.

_No, Dean can't be close to dying. Not Dean! He's too strong._ Sam writhed against his captors' firm grip.

"Ego teneo. Is ero exsisto mortuus pro nox noctis est per, tamen quis illae unus?"

Damn it! Don't you die on me, Dean!

Sam slammed his heel down hard on one of the beast's foot. It yelped in pain, releasing its hold. He swung and smashed his fist into the other's gut. Grunting, it doubled over.

He bolted for the door only to be seized as the creature extended its beefy arm and grabbed his shirt, whirling Sam around and bashing him in the face.

Sam staggered, dazed by the ferocity of the blow. He blinked hard, clearing his vision. Sam rushed to the pool table, his attackers close behind him. Grabbing a pool cue, he struck out at his assailants. The stick connected with a loud crack, the creature slumping to the floor in a heap as the thin wood snapped in half.

The other one charged, slamming into Sam, knocking them both to the floor. Hitting the ground, Sam rolled and leapt to his feet, the demon close behind.

They circled, each vying for an opening. Sam swung first, catching his attacker in the jaw. It laughed, smashing its fist into Sam's ribcage, followed quickly by an upper cut to the face. A rush of air escaped Sam's lips as he doubled over.

The force of a chair slamming across his back, sent Sam sprawling against the bar. Sam gripped the counter with shaky hands, struggling to stay on his feet. He turned, ducking a meaty fist.

A sharp lightning jab of pain coincided with the crash of a bottle against the back of his skull. Sam stumbled, warm blood oozing down the nape of his neck. His vision blurred as he unsheathed his knife.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking hard as he tried to clear his head, seeing double, everything sliding in and out of focus. Knife in hand, Sam lashed out at his attackers as he staggered toward the entrance.

At the glint of steel, the creatures' eyes widened. They trembled, snarling; hands raised defensively they edged nervously away from Sam. Cailleach cowered behind the older demon as he cast a furtive glance at the weapon.

Fumbling with the handle, the door swung open behind Sam and he stumbled, falling to the hard pavement outside. He kicked the door shut with one foot and scrambled back away from it. Sam clutched the back of his head, trying to remain focused as blood seeped through his fingers. He stood and staggered toward the Impala.

His breathing came hard and fast, heart pounding in his ears as he waited for the creatures to burst through the door in pursuit. _No keys._ _They're going to warn Mara. I have to get to Dean before they do! _He let his head drop back against the seat, his fist beating against the steering wheel in helpless frustration. _I have to stop them. They can't get to Dean. _

He opened his eyes, glaring at the hot pink neon flashing before him, teeth clenched as he struggled to find a solution. Panic welled within him, surging through his soul. He squinched his eyes. _I have to stop them! God, I can't let them get to Dean!_

Startled by the sound of splintering wood, Sam's eyes flew wide open to stare in amazement at the heavy neon sign as it broke free and flew across the parking lot. It smashed into the door, barring the exit. Neon lights popped and sizzled in a dazzling display of color.

Sam shook his head in utter disbelief. _No, it's not possible . . . I-I couldn't have done that. _

Biting at his lower lip, Sam stared at the sign for a moment longer then hot wired the Impala. _Dean is so gonna kick my ass for this. _A wry grinned twisted on his lips as the engine roared to life.

"Now to find that banshee bitch."


	7. Chapter 7

_okay, so new Dean chapter update...sorry it is short, meant for it to be longer, but it was just a really good place to end it...hope everyone enjoys...please, let me know what you think, i do so love reviews!!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Seven_

Dean stood beside the hospital bed, staring in forlorn hopelessness at the pale shadow of the man who had always been his hero. Stark white bandages, covered tufts of his father's dark brown hair, a ventilator forcing oxygen into his lungs. The slow, irregular beat of the heart monitor, echoed throughout the stillness of the room.

Taking hold of his Dad's hand, Dean bit at his lower lip, trying to think of the right thing to say. _This is all my fault. There's nothing I can say to make up for what I've done._

He swallowed hard, the tightness in his chest, nearly unbearable. "I never got to thank you, Dad. You gave up everything for me. Everything. The Colt. Your life. Your soul." Dean lowered his head, blinking back the tears threatening to fall. "Why did you do it? Why didn't you just let me die? Sometimes I think it would've been better if you had."

Dean waited breathlessly for a response he knew would never come. The words the doctor had spoken haunted him. _Severe brain damage . . . massive heart attack . . . coma . . . vegetative __state ._ _. . prepare yourself for the possibility he may not survive._

"No, you have to fight for me, Dad. You can't die on me again — not again."

Turning, Dean stared out the window, the inky indigo sky peeking through the blinds. He rubbed his tired eyes. "How do I say I'm sorry for killing you, not once but twice." He laughed wryly. "Betcha, Hallmark doesn't make a card for that occasion."

_This isn't real. Dad's already dead. He died saving my life._ Dean squinched his eyelids shut, temples throbbing mercilessly. He kneaded the sides of his head with his palms, trying to drive the ache away. _But he's not dead. He's right there. He's alive and needs me. _

He swung to stare at John, eyes glistening. "Come on, Dad . . . you're a Winchester. You're a fighter . . . fight for me." Dean held his breath, praying his father would open his eyes, that he would wake up and be all right."Please. I'm begging you. You gotta live. Sammy needs you . . . I need you."

The steady pulse of the monitor counted down the seconds as Dean waited. Nothing. Not even the slightest movement.

Dean slumped onto a cushioned chair beside the bed, elbows on knees, fingers curling tightly around his hair. He sat for the longest time, lost in thought, fears curdling his stomach like spoiled milk. _Where are you Sam? Are you even alive?_

Not looking at his father for dread of losing what little of himself he had left, Dean spoke in earnest, "I don't know what to believe in anymore, Dad. I've been your good little soldier for as long as I can remember . . . for so damn long, I don't really think I am a person anymore . . . if I ever truly was."

Dean drew a shuddering intake of air, lungs burning with each ragged breath. Wincing, he clutched his chest and hunched when the pain wouldn't subside. Dean closed his eyes. He pushed forward, knowing he might not get another chance. "I've killed more things than I can even begin to imagine and have lost everything in the process . . . and maybe I am being punished for that now."

_Sammy . . . Damn it, I've lost everything else, I can't have lost him too._

"It wasn't right you know — you had no right to ask me to kill Sam if I couldn't save him." Coughing spasmodically, Dean tasted blood at the back of his throat, and on his lips. He swiped his hand across his mouth, pulling it away tinged crimson.

_There was blood splattered everywhere . . . I was sick . . . Sam and I had a fight and he left._

He stared at the blood trying hard to recall more of the haunting vision. He touched the scars on his wrist, glaring at the hateful reminder.

"I have to believe Sam is alive, Dad . . . have to believe I can save him — it's all I have left. It's the only legacy you left behind for me. I can't fail you or Sam — I won't." Dean sighed in resignation. "So, if that makes me insane, then I guess I always was."

A knock at the door shattered the silence, startling Dean from his introspective ramblings. Dean stared slack-jawed at the man standing at the entrance. _No, it can't be . . . he's in jail. I saw the police take him away. _

"Hello, Dean. It's good to see you again."

"What the hell are you doing here, Gordon?" Dean blurted incredulously. He leapt to his feet, glaring at the dark-skinned man.

"It's Doctor Gordon." Gordon smiled, the warmth of it, not reaching the depths of his deep brown eyes. Stroking his goatee, Gordon bit his lip thoughtfully. He shook his head as he looked beyond Dean to where John lay unmoving on the hospital bed. "This is what we were afraid of isn't it, Dean? Such a tragedy. You know that, don't you?" He glanced at Dean, feigning a look of sympathy. "I've come to take you back to the Mt. Holy Oak Sanatorium, so you can get the help you need."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You tried to kill Sam, you bastard!"

"No, Dean, I never tried to harm your brother. Sammy died in a car accident a year ago." A snide smirk settled on Gordon's face.

Dean stalked to Gordon, stopping within mere inches of him. "It's Sam. Only I get to call him Sammy." He crossed his arms defiantly, glaring at him. "And you did try to blow him up, twice, but he outsmarted you." Dean laughed sardonically. "Tell me how did it feel to be hauled away by the police and thrown in jail? Must've really pissed you off."

"That was just another one of your many delusions," Gordon chided.

"Delusion or not, I still pegged you right. You were an asshole in my reality and you're still one here."

"I'm not here to argue with you, Dean." Gordon stepped away from the door and a police officer entered. Gordon reached in the pocket of his jacket, withdrew a piece of paper, and held it out to Dean. "This is a court order for your involuntary commitment."

Dean snatched the paper from him, scowling at the document. He ripped it to shreds without bothering to read it. "I'm staying right here with my father." Balling his hands into tight fists, Dean took a step closer to Gordon, glaring at him. "And God help the man who tries to make me leave."

"Your father is here because of you, Dean. Can't you see you need help before you hurt yourself or someone else?" Gordon cajoled.

"I never meant to hurt my Dad." Dean reluctantly conceded, his mind racing, trying to figure out a plan of escape. "It was an accident."

"I know."

_I have to get him to leave, have to make him believe I am going along with this. _Dean shook his head, a forlorn expression crossing his features. "I don't want to hurt anyone else."

"Then come with me. I promise I'll help you get better."

Dean bit at his lower lip, pretending to mull over Gordon's words. "If I agree, you let me stay here with my Dad until I know he is going to be all right?"

Gordon eyed him warily.

_Come on, you sonuvabitch,_ _agree to it._ "You can post the guard outside the door if you don't trust me. I won't be any trouble. Just let me stay with my father."

Gordon was quiet for a second, then gave a curt nod. "All right, Dean. We'll try it your way; as long as you promise you'll come with Officer Lewis when it's time."

Grinning, Dean raised two fingers, curling his thumb over the other two in an oath. "Scout's honor."

Doctor Gordon regarded Dean briefly then nodded to the policeman at his side. "This is Officer Lewis. He'll be right outside the door. You understand that, Dean?" Dean nodded slowly and Gordon turned to the patrolman. "When Mr. Winchester is ready to leave, please escort him to Mt. Holy Oak."

Officer Lewis moved to a position just outside the door, and leaned against the wall. "Sure, Dr. Gordon."

Dean silently crept to the door and listened until he heard the sound of Gordon's footfalls growing fainter. He turned and strode to his father's side, and held his hand. "I'm so sorry, Dad, I don't want to leave you behind." Dean's throat constricted, a dull ache tearing away at his heart. His grip tightened around his father's fingers. "I don't want to lose you again. For you to be gone like . . . like you have to be if this isn't real. But I can't believe in this. So you can't be real. And I can't stay with you." Tears fell unabashedly down his cheeks as he drew in a staggering breath. "Sam is out there somewhere searching for me. I can't give up on him — I don't think you would want me to." Reluctantly, Dean let go of his hand and glanced at his father one last time.

Dean grabbed the heavy bedside chair and dragged it loudly across the floor, the legs screeching in protest. With a muffled cry, he slammed his fist against the blinds and window, then rushed across the room to the door, holding his breath in anticipation.

The door swung open and Officer Lewis rushed inside, his head swivelling and eyes narrowed as he peered across the dimly lit room. Dean grabbed hold of him, swung him and smashed his fist into the man's face repeatedly. Lewis blocked, a solid punch connecting with Dean's mid-section. Dean clutched the man's arm, twisted it and kicked him in the back, sending the officer sprawling head first into the wall. Lewis crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Hurrying to him, Dean quickly checked for a pulse, then undressed the officer. Dean hauled him to his feet, dragged him across the room, righted the chair and dropped him down onto it. Handcuffing Officer Lewis' hands behind his back, Dean then jerked down the cording from the blinds and bound his feet. He yanked off his shirt, tore a long strip of it off and gagged Lewis.

The man opened groggy eyes just as Dean finished dressing in the uniform. Placing the police officer's hat on his head, Dean strode to him. "So what do you think? Pretty convincing, huh?"

Lewis glared at him, snarling something from beneath the gag.

Dean leaned in, grinning. "What was that? It looks better on me than you. Hmmm . . . thought so."

He turned and headed for the entrance. He swung to glare at Lewis. "Tell Gordon for me that I'm no damn boy scout. I'm a Winchester, born and bred. And warn him that when cornered, we're more deadly than you can possibly imagine."


	8. Chapter 8

_Okay, so another chapter that didn't end where i'd planned it to...hopefully everyone enjoys it!! Remember, reviews are like gold to me!! thanks again for reading!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Eight_

Dean chuckled as he casually strolled out of the hospital entrance. _That was sure a helluva lot easier than I thought it would be. _

He looked around at the parked cars. People passed by him. Some said a quick 'hello' or nodded while others appeared not to notice him as they filed past into the hospital.

A woman carrying a small child in her arms, walked up to him. "Do you think you could get the door for me, officer?"

"Sure thing." Dean opened the door and moved to the side so she could enter. He looked at the boy she was holding. "You not feeling good, buddy?"

The little boy's lips trembled as he held his stomach. He shook his head, tears in his eyes.

Dean took off the badge on his uniform and handed it to him. "Here take this with you. It'll make you feel braver."

A slow smile crept across the boy's face. "Thanks, officer."

"Anytime."

The woman glanced at Dean. "That's very kind of you, officer, but don't you need your badge?"

"Nope. Thinkin' of a career change. Too much stress on this job."

She nodded in understanding. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Dean grinned as they walked away. His smile faded to a frown as he realized he'd left the truck at Bobby's. _Damn it! Why didn't I think to bring it?_

He stared at the police vehicle parked near the door. _No. I can't._ _I'm in enough trouble as it is._ Pulling the keys out of his pocket, he glanced at them. Cocking a brow, he pursed his lips. "Ah, to hell with it."

Long strides carried Dean to the patrol cruiser. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. A surreptitious glance showed no one was watching; he grinned as he turned the key in the ignition. Dean stared at the switch for the lights and siren. "Might as well. Who knows when I'll get another chance to steal a cop car."

Flipping the switch, Dean pulled out of the hospital parking lot. Automobiles veered to the shoulder of the road as Dean sped through a stoplight, siren blaring, strobes of red and blue flashing.

"Man, I gotta get these for the Impala . . . Sammy and I can be like freakin' Ghostbusters."

Dean took a quick left and then two rights, heading to the salvage yard. On an open stretch of road, he hit the accelerator, the cruiser hungrily eating up the miles. Grabbing the cell from his pocket, he jabbed the button to call Bobby.

The phone rang twice and then he heard Bobby's gruff voice. "Hello."

"Bobby, it's Dean."

Bobby was quiet for a moment, his voice strained when he finally responded. "Where are ya?"

"I'm on way to pick up the truck. Why?"

Again the deafening silence.

"What's wrong?" Dean's stomach twisted, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Dad? Is he all right?"

"Dean. . . ." Bobby paused and drew in a deep breath. "We'll talk when you get here."

Swallowing hard against the painful lump forming in his throat, Dean slammed his palm against the wheel. "No, tell me."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean dropped the phone, hands trembling. "I killed him . . . again."

Flipping off the siren, Dean swerved to the shoulder of the road, and shifted into park. He sat blindly staring out the window as a truck sped by, slowing considerably as it passed the police vehicle. Tears stung at his eyes and slid down his face unchecked. _Oh God, Sammy, where are you? I can't go through this again_. _I can't lose Dad a second time. _

He recalled standing stoically beside Sam as they watched their father burn on the funeral pyre. Thick black smoke curled up through the night sky as the scent of burnt flesh filled the air. _That first time nearly tore me apart. _

_Hold on, Dean. I know where you are now._ Dean squinted, taking a sidelong glance at the passenger's seat, hearing Sam's voice. _I'm coming to get you._

"Sammy?"

_Don't let her win . . . you hear me. Don't let her beat you._

"I don't know what's real any more, Sammy." Dean choked out a sob. "I just want this to end. It can't stay like this, where I never know. . . ."

Dean flinched, feeling someone's touch on his shoulder.

_She's not what she seems. Find her, Dean._

"Find who? Dude, you're not makin' any sense." Dean scratched his head, puzzled by the cryptic message. "I don't know what you mean."

_Find her and you'll find me._

"Um . . . you'll have to do better than that, geekboy. Maybe use words with more than one syllable."

The pressure on Dean's shoulder disappeared. He stared at the empty seat. _Yeah, I'm so sitting here, talkin' to myself . . . no wonder everyone thinks I'm nuts. _Dean released a pent breath. "Maybe I am buckets of crazy."

_What did you mean, Sammy? Who am I supposed to be looking for? Who's not what they seem? _

Throwing the cruiser into drive, Dean pulled onto the road and headed toward Bobby's.

Dean stepped out of the cruiser, boots crunching in the gravel as he headed across the salvage lot. Bobby was bent over a cherry-red 57' Chevy working on the engine.

A young dark-haired woman stood beside Bobby, handing him tools as he asked for them. The woman glanced in Dean's direction, her seductive green-eyed gaze met and locked with his. Licking soft, full lips, she smiled.

"Hey, Bobby," He called to the older man. Dean turned and glared at the demolished Impala, frowning as he noticed a patch of dried blood on the dirt ground. _Oh God, Dad, I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. _He swallowed hard, fighting the tears springing to his eyes. _Never meant to kill you. _Dean drew a determined breath and swung to face Bobby."I came to get my Dad's truck."

"Not sure that's such a good idea, Dean." Bobby adjusted his baseball cap, lowering it across his brow. "The police were just here lookin' for ya. Seems as if someone beat up a cop an' stole his car. " He gestured toward the police cruiser, letting out a low whistle. "An' there it is." Bobby laughed and winked at Dean. "Grand theft auto is becoming a habit for you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, who would've guessed I'd be so good at it?"

"Um . . . pretty much anyone who knows you."

Dean nodded in agreement. "You're probably right."

Bobby's expression turned solemn as he crossed his arms and lowered his head. "Sorry, Dean. Yer Daddy was a good man, always did right by you and Sammy."

"I don't wanna talk about it." Dean hugged his arms around his mid-section. He winced, body trembling as white-hot pain ripped through his chest.

"It was an accident. You can't blame yerself."

"Huh." Dean let out a short anguished sigh. "Who else can I blame?" He spread his arms wide and swung around. His angered gaze settled on the young woman briefly before he returned his attention to Bobby, shrugging. "Please tell me, cause from where I'm standing, it sure as hell looked like it was my fault."

Dean cleared his throat. The metallic taste of blood reminded him he was running out of time. "Bobby, I need to know as much as you can tell me about banshees."

"Banshees? Why?"

_Because I have to find it and kill it before it kills me. _"Just research."

Bobby looked at him, rubbing grease-stained fingers through his beard. He frowned. "All right, be with ya in a sec, have to finish tunin' up this engine."

"Okay, but I'm kinda in a hurry."

"Shouldn't take much longer." Bobby ducked underneath the hood.

Dean regarded the woman for a moment, then gestured appreciatively to the Chevy. "Nice car by the way. Is it yours?"

The beautiful brunette raised a delicate brow, stared at Dean, and smirked sarcastically. "No. I have a thong bikini on beneath my clothes. When he's finished, I plan to lay spread-eagle across the hood to have my picture taken."

"Well, don't let me stop you, sweetheart." Dean flashed her one of his most dazzling smiles. "I seriously would not want to stand in your way."

Shaking her head, the woman rolled her eyes. "Oh, very clever. Subtle with just a hint of desperation, I like that."

Dean gaped at her, a strange chilled tingle worked its way up his spine. _I've heard that somewhere before._ _But where? _

_Apparently I didn't need a pickup line seein' as I already caught your attention._

_Small country bar. A girl can't help noticing the hottest guy in here. _

"Have we met before?" Dean squinted, and studied her carefully.

"No, I think I would've remembered you." She sauntered to him, wiped the grease from her fingers and grinned. "My name's Marisa, by the way. And your's is Dean, right?"

"Yeah."

_Marisa? _He couldn't remember ever meeting anyone by that name. _Why does she look so damn familiar?_

"Nice to meet you, Dean." She offered her hand.

Dean offered a polite nod, reaching forward. . . .

_Remember my name, you'll be screaming it later_.

_Mara . . . that was her name._

He yanked his arm away, clenching his fists as the new memory stole his breath away. "You — you were there. You poisoned me." Dean lunged forward and grabbed Marisa by the throat, digging his fingers into her neck. "Where's Sammy? Tell me where he is."

"Dean, let her go," Bobby hollered, rushing to wedged his way between them. "I've known Marisa all of her life and she'd never harm anyone."

Dean groaned and released her. He dropped to his knees, hunched over, gasping for breath and coughing up blood. _No — that's not possible. I'm not crazy. She was there. I remember her being there._ Another sharp stab of pain ripped through his body. Letting out a deep growl, Dean winced, his arms curling tighter around his chest.

Bobby knelt beside Dean, calloused hands gripping Dean's shoulders. "What's the matter? Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

"I-it's her." Dean pointed to Marisa, gasping for air. "Sh-she's a banshee — she's tryin' to kill me."

Bobby looked from Dean to Marisa and then back. "Not possible, Dean."

"Why won't anyone believe me? I'm not crazy . . . I'm not."

Shaking his head, Bobby fixed his stern hunter's gaze on Dean. "Banshee's don't kill people."

"Well, this one is certainly doing her best to prove you wrong."

"Oh my God, Bobby," Marisa cried, drawing Dean's attention to her. She gestured toward him. "He's bleeding."

Dean glanced at his t-shirt, eyes widening in disbelief as a slow trail of crimson spread across his upper chest.

"We need to get you to the hospital." Bobby carefully helped Dean to his feet.

"No." Dean jerked free of Bobby's grasp, staggering toward his father's truck. "I have to find Sammy. He's the only one who can help me."

Bobby took a step toward Dean. "Damn it, Dean, Sam is dead. You need a hospital."

Dean raised an arm to stop him from coming any closer. "Don't you say that." He clenched his fists as he struggled to draw in a breath. "If he's dead then so am I — he's my only hope."

"Where ya gonna go?" Bobby asked.

_She's not what she seems. Find her, Dean. Find her and you'll find me._

"Maybe you're right, Bobby. Maybe banshees don't kill people." Inclining his head toward Marisa, Dean's eyes narrowed. "I need answers . . . need to know if I'm crazy or not — So, I'm going to find the one person who can end this."


	9. Chapter 9

_so another unedited chapter, hopefully it isn't too bad!! I'll probably be reposting it again once i find my beta, with two stories for her to edit, i think she is hiding from me ... lol!! thanks for all the wonderful reviews so far!! so glad to see so many people sticking with a story I'm writing!! thanks again, bambers;)_

_Chapter Nine_

Sam blinked hard to clear his blurred vision as he tried to keep his gaze trained on the road. _Where the hell would the banshee take him?_ The glare from the headlights on the wet pavement slipped in and out of focus as blood trickled down the nape of Sam's neck.

Grabbing the cell from the pocket of his hoodie, Sam hit the button to call Bobby. The phone rang three times and then he heard Bobby's voice.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Bobby, it's Sam."

"What's wrong, Sam?" Bobby replied in a gruff tone, never one to stand on pretenses. "You don't sound good."

"I'm okay." Sam took his hand off the wheel to rub his throbbing forehead, the car veering precariously to the left. _What the heck am I doing._ Sam quickly gripped the wheel and swerved back into his own lane. "It's Dean. He's missing."

"Did you boys have another fight?"

"No."

"Sam."

Sam jerked the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment. _How does he always know when we've been arguing? _

"Well, yeah, we were fighting, but that's not the point. Something took him."

Bobby was silent for a moment, and Sam could almost picture the old hunter with a baseball cap on, scrubbing his fingers through his scruffy beard, a worried expression on his face. "What do ya mean, somethin'?"

"I think it was a banshee. We saw her earlier tonight, and she said Dean was gonna die."

"And you think she might've taken him?"

"Yeah."

"Not possible, Sam," came Bobby's quick reply.

"What do you mean, it's not possible? I'm telling you she took him."

"Don't you boys ever do yer research? If it was a banshee you saw, she was probably trying to warn Dean, not kill him." Bobby took a deep breath, slowly exhaling.

"Warn him?" Sam's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he turned right onto a dark, tree-lined country road._ He has to be drunk. _"You been hanging with Johnny Walker and Jack again tonight?"

"Nope stone cold sober . . . only had five beers." Bobby let out a short laugh. "Seriously though, yer Daddy and I had our theories about banshees. John even kicked around the idea if you saved the life of the person she wept for, the banshee would be freed from her curse."

"Th-that can't be true. She's a freakin harbinger of death, for Christ's sake."

"That's what yer Daddy believed."

Sam groaned, the fuzziness in his mind increasing. He blinked hard against the blinding headlights coming toward him. The driver in the other car blared his horn and Sam jumped, veering back into his own lane, heart pounding in his throat. _Come on, Sam, pull it together. Dean needs you. And he'll be pissed as all hell if you wreck his baby while trying to save him. _

"Sam, you sure yer okay?" came Bobby's concerned voice. "You sound kinda strange. Sure you ain't been the one drinkin'?"

"Just tired, Bobby." Sam winced as he rounded his shoulders, trying to stretch his throbbing muscles. "So do you think my Dad was right?"

"Not sure, Sam. Everything I've ever read says they're guardians, protecting certain families."

"Huh, if not her, then who could've taken him?"

"Why don't ya start at the beginning? Tell me what happened and maybe we can figure this out."

"Okay." Sam went on to explain about sighting the banshee at the graveyard and the bar where Dean had disappeared. When he came to the part about Mara, Bobby stopped him.

"What did you say her name was again?"

"Mara."

"Damn it." Bobby was quiet again, his steady breathing the only sound Sam could hear. Bobby's tone turned urgent as he spoke again. "Has Dean been havin' nightmares?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"An' he ain't been sleepin'?" Bobby went on to say as if he hadn't heard Sam's question.

"Yeah."

Bobby let out a low whistle, and Sam could almost see him shaking his head. "She's the demon of nightmares, Sam — an' if Mara's got her hooks into Dean, he's in deep shit."

The hairs on the nape of Sam's neck stood on end, sweat prickling at his scalp."What do you mean?"

"Ever heard if you die in your dream, you die in real life?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's true. But the thing of it is, most people wouldn't consider it the work of a demon cause the victims die of natural causes."

"How do I find him?" Sam held his breath. _Please God, don't let me be to late. Come on, Bobby, tell me where to look. _

"Best guess, find the banshee and you'll find Dean. If I'm right and he's close to death, she won't be far from him."

"And how do you suppose I do that?" Sam growled in frustration.

"Simple. Go back to where you first saw her."

xXxXxXxXxXx

Sam parked the Impala off to the shoulder of the road near the cemetery entrance. He rubbed the nape of his neck, blood still oozing from the deep wound the demons had inflicted. With vision blurring and temples throbbing mercilessly, he grabbed his flashlight, checked his weapons and slid out of the car, closing the door behind him.

Climbing the low cemetery wall, Sam leapt to the ground, clenching his teeth against the groan of pain as white-hot pain shot through his back. He aimed the narrow beam toward where he'd last seen the banshee, and headed in that direction.

Strong winds rustled through the trees as the weather grew more intense. Lightning cut a jagged path through the darkened sky and was quickly followed by a loud crack of thunder. Driving rains fell once again in earnest.

Cocking his head to the side, Sam squinted, noticing the pale amber glow of flickering light, moving through the trees. The banshee's keen pierced the stillness of the cemetery, grating on Sam's taut nerves. _Bobby better be freakin right about this. _

He sprinted toward her. His back and sore ribs screamed in protest as he ducked under branches, and swerved to avoid gravestones and jutting roots.

"Wait," Sam called breathlessly. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

The banshee slowed in her steps and turned to look at him. Pale red-rimmed eyes glimmered in the darkness.

Sam quickly caught up to her and raised opened hands to show he was unarmed. "I need to know where my brother is."

The banshee remained quiet while she stared at him.

"Please, you can't let him die."

"Ah, now ye want tae be talkin' tae me," the banshee replied with a lilting brogue. She pursed her lips, regarding him thoughtfully. "Yer brother be in a might bit o' trouble, tae be sure."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Aye, that I do . . . not that it'll be doin ye any good." She let out a loud screeching wail.

Dropping his flashlight, Sam pressed his palms to ears, the sound of her keen driving him to his knees. His body trembled uncontrollably as she continued to cry.

"H-help Dean." Sam begged. "Don't let her kill him — please."

The banshee stop crying and knelt beside him. She placed her chilled fingers under his chin, tilting it upwards to meet her unwavering gaze. "My name be Misery, guardian of the family Kavanaghs yer Irish forefathers." Misery took hold of Sam's arm and helped to his feet. "Now tell me, why should I be helpin' ye when ye would 'ave killed me earlier if ye had the chance?"

Sam stared at her long and hard for several seconds. "Because he's my brother and because I don't think you want harm to come to him."

Misery nodded. "Aye, tis a goodly answer, young Samuel." She choked on a sob, tears glistening in her pale gray-blue eyes. "Tis not in me tae see yer brother come tae such an ill demise." Raising her wrought-iron lantern, she gestured toward the western corner of the cemetery. Misery took hold his arm. "Come, I shall show ye where yer brother be."

Sam hesitated, closely scrutinizing her. _What if Bobby's wrong? What if Misery isn't here to protect Dean? _

"Where are we going?" he asked suspiciously.

"There be a mausoleum at the far corner o' the graveyard. Mara be keepin' Dean there whilst she works her nightmare upon him."

"Is he — " Sam couldn't bring himself to ask if Dean was dying.

"Aye, he be close . . . I can feel Dean's will tae live rapidly ebbing from him." Misery released her grip on his hand and strode away, her long green dress trailing through the thick, sloshing mud.

_Hold on, Dean. I know where you are now._ _I'm coming to get you._

Sam hurried and caught up to her, grabbing Misery by the forearm, he swung her to face him. "How do I stop Mara? How do I kill her?"

"Nay, Samuel, ye cannot kill a nightmare. Tis as intangible as the wind itself."

"Then how am I supposed to save Dean?"

A sad smile graced Misery's face. "Maybe ye cannot. Maybe ye were just meant tae say yer goodbyes."

Sam shook his head, swallowing hard. "I don't believe that."

Misery's brow's knit together in a frown as she peered into his eyes. "There be an old saying, lost to all throughout time an' age itself, but tis not forgotten by we banshees." She drew a shallow breath and continued, "A tip o' the blade shall cut through the dream, darkness shall fall away and lightness shall be seen."

Sam recalled the reaction of the demons at the bar when they'd seen the blade. "The knife . . . that's why they were afraid of it." Sam's grip tightened on her arm, knees buckling, strength waning as blood continued to drip from the deep cut on his head.

"Aye, but are ye strong enough to face her, Samuel?" Misery eyed Sam, her intent gaze taking in his weakened state. "Tis ye she seeks to possess. Tis yer dreams that make her stronger — yer dreams which set her free from the nightmare realm." Cocking a delicate brow, she pursed pale lips. "Tell me, how can ye hope tae beat her when she's bested ye at every turn?"

Sam straightened to his full height. He inwardly groaned, wincing at the jarring pain along the length of his back. "I won't let Dean die," he growled.

"Her power holds much sway o'er ye, lest ye forget that," Misery warned. "Without Dean tae bring ye from the brink, can ye survive her nightmares?"

"Bring it on, sweetheart," Sam replied, in a tone Dean would've been proud of.

Misery nodded. "All right, Samuel. I shall take ye tae yer brother." She lifted the lantern and marched away, gesturing for him to follow. "Tis said, if ye wound a nightmare demon enough it shall never show its face at yer bedside again. Go for the heart. Twist the blade counterclockwise whilst ye stare the demon in the eyes. But ye mustn't show fear for it will make her stronger."

At the entrance of the mausoleum, Misery hesitated. "I can go no further with ye. I must be at Dean's side if ye should fail." She drew a staggering breath, a sob catching in her throat. Misery placed chilled fingers on Sam's arm. "I shall find him and lead him back, the rest is up tae ye."

"Misery." Sam hesitated, licking his suddenly dry lips. He shrugged, giving her an awkward smile. "Thanks."

"Aye, yer welcome, young Winchester." She cast him a sad smile. "Yer forefathers would be proud of ye." Misery disappeared in a torrent of black smoke, leaving Sam alone to face the demon.

Sam thought of how Dean would react if he saw the banshee again. _He'll probably shoot first, an' ask questions later, if i know him . . . and i do._ He shook his head, silently begging for Dean to hear him. _She's not what she seems. Find her, Dean. _Sam stared at the faded trail of smoke, and then at the mausoleum. _Don't let her win . . . you hear me. Don't let her beat you. Find her and you'll find me._

Sam pried open the thick slab door of the mausoleum, a shaft of pale amber light cutting through the darkness. The bitter scent of blood, and stale air assailed his senses. Eerie ghostly shadows danced along the stone walls and disappeared into the darkened recesses of the tomb.

Clutching the knife in his right hand, Sam steeled himself for what he might find inside. Silently, he slipped into the darkened room. A circle of candles flickered around the three tombs resting in the center of the floor. Dean lay sprawled on the middle one, his arms dangled motionlessly over the edges. Mara sat perched on his chest, clawed nails digging into his ribcage.

Tightening his grasp on the handle of the blade, Sam stealthily edged toward her. Dean let out a sudden gasp and then went deathly pale. His body stilling completely.

"Dean," Sam shouted. Forgetting all pretenses of a sneak attack, Sam rushed forward.

Mara swung to face him, jade eyes glimmering in the glow of candlelight.

"Get the hell off my brother, you bitch."

"Ah, jealous, Sam," she cooed. "Prefer me on top of you instead." Mara leapt to the ground with catlike grace.

"In your dreams, darlin'," Sam said, in his best Dean drawl.

"No, in your nightmares," Mara countered, laughing as she took a step toward him. She looked from him to the knife and hesitated. A slow devious smile crept onto her face. "So you think you can kill me, Sammy? Think I'll die easily?"

"Somethin' like that — and the name is Sam."

Holding a pent breath, Sam quickly peered beyond her to see if Dean was still breathing, releasing it when he saw Dean's chest slowly rise as he drew in a ragged breath. Sam returned his attention to Mara.

"You'd be proud of your brother, he was quite a challenge, but not so much so that I couldn't beat him," Mara taunted. "You on the other hand, were always easy. Almost like a two-bit prostitute. I like that about you." She edged her way closer, cautiously eying the blade. "I can always bring you to your knees."

"Not this time."

"You think not?" Mara scowled, glaring at Sam. "We'll just have to see about that."

Sam squinched his eyelids closed as images of the yellow-eyed demon flashed in front of him. Visions of people dying by his own hand, swirled inside his mind, forcing him to his knees. The knife he held fell to clatter on stone flooring. _Oh God, make it stop! _

Blood dripped from his nose as stark pain ripped through his forehead. The images grew more gruesome. His body trembled as he saw himself stabbing Dean repeatedly in the neck and heart, blood surging from gaping wounds. _No. Dean. Please stop, I can't take it. _His fingers curled tightly around his hair as he hunched low to the ground.

Mara sauntered to Sam, grabbed him by the hair and yanked it viciously so he was peering up at her. She gently traced a clawed fingertip down the length of his face. "You see, you were never a challenge. Your weakness makes me stronger. Your fears are my lifeblood. It's why I love you, Sam — and it's why Dean must die."

_Oh God, Dean, this is my fault. I'm so sorry. _

_I've got to stop her. Have to save Dean. _Sam kept his vison trained on her as he felt around for where he'd dropped his knife. His fingers clasped onto it and he dragged it toward him. He palmed the handle, gripping it firmly as he jerked free of Mara's grasp and leapt to his feet.

"Not this time. I won't let you beat me this time." Plunging the blade into her heart, Sam twisted it counterclockwise, his steely gaze never faltering as Mara screamed and jerked away from him.

Mara staggered, clutching her chest and staring at Sam in disbelief. She looked from him to Dean, and one last wicked smile graced her face. "You're too late, Sam," she uttered and then disappeared in an explosion of ash and smoke.

Sam glared at her disappearing form for a moment to make sure she was gone, then rushed to his brother. Blood trickled from the corner of Dean's mouth, and seeped from the wounds on either side of his chest. Dean drew a shallow breath and then went deathly still.

The ear-piercing screech of the banshee echoed through the quiet of the tomb. Sam's heart caught in his throat, choking off his breath. _I can't be too late. Please tell me I'm not too late. Dean. . . ._

"No. No. No. No — you can't do this Dean. You can't leave me now. She's gone. We won." Gathering Dean motionless body into his arms, Sam held onto him, rocking him gently as he wept bitterly. "Come on, Dean, don't die on me now — I need you. . . ."


	10. Chapter 10

_phew!! a few more chapters to go!! this one took me forever to write, had to rewrite it several times before i was happy with it!! hope everyone enjoys!! reviews are golden!! thanks again to everyone who has stuck with the story so far!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Ten_

Dean drove through night, and well on into the next evening. When he'd finally reached his destination, he pulled his Dad's truck off to the curb, and killed the engine. He sat and peered through the trees and gathering gloom, pensively drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. _God, please don't prove me wrong._ He gritted his teeth, letting out a low groan, excruciating pain racking his body.

He cringed, gripping the wheel, feeling as if dagger-sharp claws were digging into his ribcage, and choking off his breath. _Pain is good. Pain is my friend, _he repeated the mantra over and over again in his mind. _Yeah, so not helping. _

Sharp, searing pain ripped through Dean's chest, blood slowly soaking his shirt. _Note to self, find and kick the ass of whoever thought up this Zen meditation crap. _

Opening the truck door, Dean braced himself against the doorframe and climbed out. He drew in a shaky breath and slowly released it. Blinking hard against the blissful darkness threatening to engulf him, Dean slowly trudged to the back of the truck and grabbed one of his father's guns.

Wind howled through the oaks and maples and scattered dead leaves across the ground. Moonlight and dark shadows danced eerily through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the low wailing of the banshee, followed by an ominous screech. _Ah, should've known you'd be here waiting for me, bitch._

Dean flipped on his flashlight, the beam reflecting off the marble headstones, and headed toward the far corner of the cemetery. He walked past numerous rows of grave markers, until he finally came to his mother and Sam's grave.

"Sammy?" Dean called. "If you're here, answer me."

At the sound of twigs snapping behind him, Dean swung and aimed his flashlight toward the noise. A frightened raccoon scampered away into the forest surrounding the cemetery. _God, I so hate those things._

He turned and knelt beside Sam's grave. Setting his gun on the grass, Dean removed the amulet from around his neck and then dug a small hole, placed the chain inside, and covered it with dirt.

"Don't think I'm gonna make it this time, dude." Dean's voice hitched in his throat. "J-just wanted you to know, I never stopped searching for you." Scrubbing his hand across his face, Dean let out a low, anguished sob.

He glanced in the direction of his father's truck, a sad, desolate feeling overwhelming him. His gaze returned to his brother's grave. "I killed him, Sammy. It's all my fault. Again." Dean brushed away a stray tear with the back of his hand. "Even here I'm the reason Dad died."

Dean leaned forward and traced Sam's name on the headstone with his index finger. _You're really dead, aren't you? _

"Never wanted to believe this was real — thought if I just tried a little harder, I could make you be alive. But, I couldn't find my way back to you. And now I'm just too damn tired to try anymore."

Wincing, Dean shifted to rest against his brother's gravestone. Heavy eyelids slid closed as he struggled to take a breath. Slowly, he opened them to stare out into the dark emptiness of the cemetery. "Kinda fitting I should die here though, seeing as how I spent most of my life in one cemetery or another."

A tight knot formed in Dean's throat as his tears fell unchecked. "Oh God, Sammy, I'm so sorry I wasn't able to protect you."

Hearing the banshee's wails beckoning to him, Dean's head dropped back to rest against the cold stone marker. _Not yet, bitch — not before I'm good and ready._

Wrapping his arms tightly around his chest, Dean drew a slow staggering breath. "Somehow, I'd always thought we'd win in the end, dude, I really did. I-I know it was stupid, but I believed it." He closed his eyes, and took another pain-filled breath. "Hell, we're the good guys, right? We've fought the good fight — saved a lot of people along the way — where the hell's our happy ending?"

"Dean," came the deep, rich familiar sound of Sam's voice directly above him.

Dean opened sluggish eyes, and stared at his brother.

Bathed in a pale golden glow, Sam knelt beside him, an awkward smile graced his face. "There's no such thing as a happy ending, Dean." Sam shook his head. "Not for a Winchester."

Dean quirked a brow. Licking his lips, he tasted warm, salty blood. "Could've used just a bit of optimism there, dude."

Sam shrugged. "It's time to let go. Don't you think you've done enough? You're the last Winchester left standing."

"So tired, Sammy — so damn tired of fighting — of losing everyone I love."

"Then stop fighting and let go."

The banshee's wail grew increasing louder as she drew near.

Dean looked from Sam toward the advancing gloom of death and then his gaze fixed on his brother. "I-it — it was all a lie wasn't it? The past year: Dad makin' a deal to save me, Gordon, the Morgan's, all of it?"

Sam gave a curt nod. "No one blames you, Dean. We all knew why you needed to retreat into yourself — why you needed a world where you could be the hero. But, all dreams have to come to an end. That's just the way it is."

"Y-yeah, tha' s-so sucks," Dean replied, his words slurring, eyelids drooping. "W-wasn't even a gr-great dream."

"They never are." Sam chuckled.

Dean arched forward, crying out, more pain surging through his entire body. Hands balling into tight fists, he fought to catch his breath.

"Stop fighting it, Dean, we're all waiting for you — Mom, Dad, Jess and me."

"M-mom?" Dean slumped back against the gravestone, trembling uncontrollably. "Sh' there?"

Sam smiled as he repositioned himself to sit next to Dean, wrapping his arm around Dean. "Yeah, she's beautiful, dude. Just the way you always described her to me."

Dean shifted slightly to look at his brother through blurred vision. "D-Da'?"

"Yeah, him too. He's a little pissed at you right now for the whole clocking him in the head thing." Sam laughed.

Letting out a strained chuckle, Dean grinned and muttered, "K-kinda, thou- he wou- be."

Sam let go of Dean and stood. He looked from Dean to the heavens and then back. "I'll be waiting for you, Dean."

Dean swallowed hard, fighting the tears threatening to fall. "D-don't wanna d-die alone."

Squatting beside Dean, Sam rested his elbows on his knees and stared intently at Dean. He shook his head, frowning. "I wanna stay. God, I really do — but I can't. They're pulling me back." He reached out and wiped the blood from Dean's lips. "It's not so bad, Dean. Dying, I mean. It's all over so quickly and then there's no more pain . . . just peace. You deserve peace."

Sam smiled at Dean one last time and then disappeared in a flash of sparkling white light.

"S-sam — Sammy," Dean cried bitterly. "Don't k-know how t-to le' go . . . don't k-know how t-to st-stop fightin'."

_They're waiting for me — all of them. _A crooked grin graced Dean's face at the thought. _Mom. I'm so tired of trying to fix everyone . . . to make things okay for everyone else. Don't I deserve peace? I'm ready to come home — ready to be happy._

Dean grabbed the gun from the ground and with shaky hands he jammed it to his temple. _Always thought I'd go out in a blaze of glory, killin' as many evil sonsuvbitches as I possibly could. _

Resting his finger against the trigger, Dean thought of Sam and sobbed. _Always thought you'd be right there beside me, Sammy — never thought you'd die first._

The banshee appeared before him in an explosion of black smoke and flames. Her ear-piercing keen echoing through the stillness.

"K-know I'm ir-resistible t-to women, bitch, but this st-stalkin' me 's gotta stop." He let out a weak chuckle, then groaned. _Damn, even dying, I'm still the funniest person I know._

Tears shimmered in the banshee's ghostly blue-grey eyes."Dean," she murmured. "I be here to —"

He shook his head, swallowing hard. "N-no need to push m-me — ready . . . to . . . go," he replied breathlessly.

His index finger tightened on the trigger, heart beating erratically inside his chest. _So gonna be pissed if my Impala isn't up and running in heaven. _

"S-so much f-for the good fight — love ya, Sammy."

Dean squeezed the trigger.

The banshee's wails grew increasingly louder as she dropped to her knees beside Dean.

_No. No. No. No — you can't do this Dean. You can't leave me now. She's gone. We won. Come on, Dean, don't die on me now — I need you. . . ._


	11. Chapter 11

_okay, sorry this took me forever to write...hopefully it turned out okay... thanks for reading. hope everyone enjoys!! thanks for reading!!! reviews as always are golden!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Eleven_

The blast of gunfire echoed through the stillness of the cemetery, momentarily silencing the harmonic chirping of crickets and peepers. The .45 slipped effortlessly from Dean's hand and fell to the ground. Blood dripped down the side of his face, quickly soaking his t-shirt.

_Damn, that so should've hurt like a sonuvabitch. _

The banshee picked the weapon up and shook her head. Her steady gaze fixed on Dean. "Tha' wasna such a good idea." She gently wiped away the blood from Dean's temple. "I did try an' warn ye, but ye wouldna listen."

"Am I — "

The banshee rested two fingers on Dean's lips, hushing him. "Shhh . . . dinna say it — dinna even dare tae think it. For tae say the words would make it so."

Dean took her chilled hand in his. A single tear slipped down his cheek as he glanced around the quiet cemetery, and then his gaze settled on her. "It figures, you know . . . I couldn't even do this right."

"Pray, I do no' understand."

"Most people — most people don't get stuck outside of a grave hoping to get in."

"An' why would ye be wantin' tae get in?"

Dean lowered his head, his hand falling away from hers. "I failed them . . . failed them miserably. My Dad gave me one job — protect Sam and I let him die. God, I don't even know how my father could stomach looking at me."

The banshee reached out and lifted his chin, cupping his face in her delicate hand. "Yer bein' too hard on yerself, Dean. Ye do the best ye can, and tis far more than most would do. Yer Da was proud o' ye."

"I wonder how proud he was of me, when I bashed his skull with a crowbar — Christ, what kind of person kills their own father?"

"I willna have ye belittlin' yerself. Ye didna hurt yer father, he choose tae die tae save ye."

"It really doesn't make a damn bit of difference how he died. It's still because of me that he's dead." He stood and stared at Sam's grave. "Even if this isn't real, even if I didn't murder my own father, the guilt's still there . . . it doesn't go away. Not for one damn second does it ever go away."

He looked at her for a moment, blinking back the tears in his eyes, and then turned away. "It's been eating away a hole so big inside of me that sometimes it's even hard to breathe cause the hurt is too much to bear — and I'm afraid someday Sammy will come to hate me for it."

"So ye chose tae end it all . . . give up on all tha' is real, tae believe in tha' which is not, so ye could put an end tae the pain?"

"I'm not a coward." Dean shook his head, the sound of the words on his lips, leaving a decidely bitter taste in his mouth. "I'm just so damn tired of fighting an' never knowing a minute's peace."

The banshee stood and placed her hand over his heart. "Tis a warrior's cross to bear, Dean. Tis no' fair tae have tae be the one who is ever vigilant, protecting those who canna protect themselves, but ye were chosen for yer strength o' courage and for yer heart."

"And what if I'm ready for it to be over?"

"Tis your choice, but yer brother Samuel is awaitin' yer return. He drove away yer demon, and he need ye more than ye can ever know."

_Sam, I knew you couldn't be dead. _Dean turned away from her, his hand lightly brushing against his brother's gravestone. Touching the side of his head, Dean felt the hole left behind by the bullet. _But how can I face you? I gave up on you . . . gave up on myself. How do I tell you I wanted more than anything to die? _He swallowed hard, a tight knot forming in his throat. "I don't think I can."

"Ye'd rather I finished my keen and yer heart shall cease tae beat?"

He heard her soft mournful crying and swung to face her. "Will he know what I did — that I . . . ."

"Nay, he will only know what ye choose tae tell him."

_I can't leave you, Sammy, can't let you fight alone. _Dean gave a curt nod. "Think this is the part where I'm supposed to click my boots together three times and say, there's no place like home? Kinda fitting seein' as how I was born in Kansas." He chuckled.

"Tis no' gonna be tha' easy, Dean. Ye see, yer kinda stuck between a Rock 'n a Hard Place."

_That's where we were. Mara was there, she poisoned me. Sam was angry and left. I told him I wouldn't die in the — _Dean shook his head in disbelief, a short laugh escaping his lips. "Yeah, it kinda figures, doesn't it. Told Sammy I wouldn't die in the bathroom . . . and so Mara somehow trapped me there, right?"

The banshee nodded. "Mirrors are tricky things, Dean. Twas said in days long since past, tha' a mirror could trap a man's soul within its murky depths. Ye smashed it, yer blood mingled with it, and Mara trapped yer soul inside o' it."

"So that's why I didn't die here." Dean stalked back and forth, fists clenching and unclenching, his anger growing with every step. "That stupid bitch. She didn't just want me to die in real life, she wanted me to stay trapped here in a never-ending nightmare."

"Aye."

"And Sammy killed her?"

"Nay, ye canna kill a nightmare, ye can only chase it away, and hope it never darkens yer doorstop again."

"So how do I get free?"

"Smash the mirror, the curse is broken."

"Sounds pretty damn easy, how do I find it?"

"Nay, Samuel must do it . . . tis him tha' the promise was made tae and now only he who can right the wrong."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

"Come on, Dean, you can't do this. I — " Sam's voice hitched in his throat as he angrily brushed away the tears cascading down his cheeks. "I saved you." Sam cradled Dean's motionless body to his chest, and gently rocked him back and forth.

The sound of the banshee sobbing caught Sam's attention. He glanced toward the entrance of the mausoleum, and saw her standing there, tears shimmering in her unearthly blue-gray eyes.

"Help me," Sam begged, hugging Dean closer to him. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do."

Misery took several tentative steps toward Sam, then hesitated. "Yer brother, I saw 'im. He be ready tae come back tae ye."

Sam could tell by the look in her eyes, she was warring with the idea of Dean living instead of dying. "And you want me to let him go?"

In a blink, Misery was at Sam's side, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. "Yer brother, be broken, Samuel No' just here." Misery pointed to her heart."But here as well." She tapped a willowy finger to her temple. "I dinna ken if ye'd be savin' 'im or causin' 'im more heartache."

"So you're just gonna let him die?"

"Tis no' my choice tae make, Samuel." She ran her fingers down the length of Dean's face, and then looked at Sam. "By all tha' is right, he shouldna be alive, 'is heart no longer beats within 'is chest, no breath does he take . . . but he is no' gone." She glanced at Sam, tears glistening on her pale cheeks. "Yer brother will live because he chooses tae live. Do no' forget tha' in the long days an' weeks tae come, for it is yer strength tha' shall see him through."

"I-I don't understand. How do I get him back?"

Misery placed her hand under his chin and lifted his chin, so Sam was looking her in the eyes. "I already told ye, remember?"

Sam thought about everything she'd said to him, trying to recall anything that would bring his brother back to life. _At the bar, when she spoke to me, it wasn't a curse. Misery was trying to tell me how to save him. _"Reflect on the past and you shall find . . . demons and haunting delusions do bind. . . .Images are not always as they seem . . . when caught between daylight and the dream. . . .Reforge the once true vision . . . shatter the illusional division. . . ."

"Aye, well done, Samuel."

"I have to rebreak the mirror."

"Aye, tha' shall release his soul."

"Simple enough."

"Nay, do no' be fooled, Samuel, tis never an easy thing tae be messin' with things o' a dark nature."

"Doesn't really matter cause I'll do whatever it takes to save him." Sam stood, wincing as pain shot through his sore back. He carefully lifted Dean's lifeless body into his arms, shifting him slightly so Dean's head was cradled against his chest.

"Then be warned, young Samuel, for the next cry o' the banshee may be for ye."

He looked at her one last time, a wry smile twisting on his face. "I'm willing to risk it. He's my brother. He'd do the same for me."

"Then good luck tae ye."

"Misery."

"Aye?"

"Thanks."

"Ye're welcome, young Winchester." The banshee disappeared in an explosion of writhing flames. A trail of black smoke rose slowly to the ceiling, fanned outward, then dissipated.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Sam grabbed his knife, slid out of the Impala, and carefully shut the door, so as not to give away his presence to any demon who might still be lurking around just out of sight.

_Yeah, somehow this idea sounded a helluva lot better when I wasn't heading into a den of angry demons. _

He edged his way to the door, glanced back at the car to make sure Dean was still alone, and then crept inside. The room was ominously quiet. Pink neon casting eerie shadows along the walls. _I don't care what Dean thinks, I am so definitely choosing the next bar we go to._

Chairs and tables lay in a scattered mess on the ground, some in splintered pieces. Sam winced recalling the pain of when one of the demons slammed a heavy wood chair into his back.

Broken glass crunched underfoot as he slowly traipsed to the far corner of the room where the bathrooms were located. He pushed open the door, and peered inside, his hand tightening around the handle of the knife he was carrying. The bathroom was empty. _So not that I'm complainin' but when a banshee warns you, you might die, you kinda expect at least one demon to try and kill you at some point._

Sam strode to the mirror, looked back at the door to make sure no one was coming after him, then raised his fist and slammed it into the glass while repeating, "Reflect on the past and you shall find . . . demons and haunting delusions do bind. . . .Images are not always as they seem . . . when caught between daylight and the dream. . . .Reforge the once true vision . . . shatter the illusional division. . . ."

The mirror shattered, pieces of reflective glass clattering into the sink below. A wisp of grayish-black smoke rose from within, and brushed past Sam, disappearing into thin air. _Well, that was sorta anticlimactic to say the least._

Sam turned and headed for the door, stopping dead in his tracks when an explosion rocked the building, throwing him backward into the wall. Another strong blast quickly followed, thick black smoke filling the bathroom.

Staying low to the ground, Sam edged to the door and tried to push it open, but it wouldn't budge.

Sam turned and kicked at it with all his strength, yet the door held firm. Panicking, he stood, and looked for a window. Heavy smoke burned his eyes, making it almost impossible to see anything.

_If I can't have Dean, I'll take you instead. _Sam heard Mara's voice through the sound of timber crackling and crumpling to the ground outside the bathroom. Jade eyes glared mockingly at him through the thick smoke.

_Oh God, there's no window. I'm gonna burn alive._

Sam coughed hard, smoke filling his lungs making it increasingly harder to breathe. He ran at the door, slamming into it at full force and it gave way.

Dropping to the floor, he slowly crawled on all fours through the maze of broken furniture and burning timber, not knowing exactly where in the tavern he was.

_Dean . . . I need you. Don't want to burn to death. _Gasping for breath, Sam made it a few more feet before he passed out.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Dean awoke with the sound of the first blast. By the second, he was out of the Impala, searching for Sammy.

Sam . . . Sammy!"

_Oh Christ, he's inside there._

The keen of the banshee could be heard above the roar of the fire. _You can't have him. You hear me. I didn't come back to have Sammy die on me._

He heard the banshee's voice in his head. _He made his choice, Dean . . . knew the risk. He was willing tae die tae save ye._

_I won't let you take him from me. You hear me, bitch. No one is going to kill my brother. _Fighting the pain, ripping through his sides, Dean rushed for the door, threw it open, and ran inside.


	12. Chapter 12

_Next chappy posted...two in one day, not bad!! now back to Charlie!! thanks for reading!! thanks for all the awesome reviews!!! gotta say, i live for them...not too many chappies left to go on this story!! phew!! bambers;)_

_also, i borught back a character from my first fanfic, called Guiltless Crimes... her name is Angelina andI just loved her character and couldn't resist bringing her back to help Dean!! _

_Chapter Twelve_

Dean dropped to the ground the moment he was inside the blazing inferno, thick black smoke burning his already aching lungs, eyes stinging as ash and soot gathered in them. He squinched his eyelids closed and rubbed them with the palms of his hands.

"Sam . . . Sam-my," he managed to choke out before coughing, more smoke filling his lungs.

On all fours, Dean crawled through the fiery debris, quickly rolling out of the way as a piece of burning timber fell and landed within mere inches of him. Hot ash scattered, singeing Dean's bare arms and face.

He scurried through the labyrinth of burning broken chairs and tables, heading toward the bathroom. _Damn it, Sammy, where the hell are you?_

He'd just barely rounded one of the tables when he spotted his brother. Sprawled out on the ground, Sam lay motionless, dangerously close to being burned alive by the quickly spreading fire. Dean's heart caught in his throat as another piece of timber broke free from the ceiling and crashed down onto a turned over chair a few feet away from his brother. Sam didn't even flinch at the noise or make an attempt to move as the fire drew closer.

_Oh God, don't you be dead, Sammy. You can't die on me now._

Leaping to his feet, Dean sprinted the rest of the distance to his brother, mindless of the danger crashing down all around him. Dean fell to his knees and gathered Sam into his arms, cradling Sam's head, against his chest. He quickly checked Sam's breathing and felt for a pulse, but found neither.

"No. No. No. No. No. Come on, Sammy, don't you dare die on me." Dean gently shook him. Sam's head lolled lifelessly to the side and then rolled back to rest against Dean's shoulder. Tears streaked Dean's soot-covered face as he brushed Sam's unruly hair out of his closed eyes.

"I'm gonna get you outta here." Gathering his last stores of strength, Dean stood, hooked his arms under Sam's, and began dragging him toward the door. Sweat streamed down Dean's face and back, his shirt nearly soaked. His tired, aching muscles screamed with the effort it took to haul his brother from the fiery building, but he refused to give up. _Come on, God, just a little help here._

The fire flared up, spreading rapidly across the ceiling, rippling like fiery waves in an ocean hell-bent on destroying everything in its path. Liqueur bottles on the shelf behind the bar exploded, spewing reddish-gold flames into the air. A fiery beam crashed to the floor in front of the entrance, cutting off any hope of escape from it. He glanced heavenward. _Yeah, thanks for the help._

Dean squinted, scanning the tavern for another exit. _There has to be one in back. _His gaze darted from one side of the bar to the other and found no clear path large enough for both him and Sam to get through. If he'd been alone, he could've probably made it through the narrow twists and turns of the fiery maze, but to leave Sam behind wasn't even an option.

He nodded, lower jaw trembling. He dropped to his knees, and gathered Sam into his arms, wrapping them tightly around his brother to shield him from the inferno. "It's all right, Sammy, I'll stay with you. I promise. I won't leave you alone." Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, acrid smoke filling his lungs. Dean rested his head against Sam's and slowly rocked his brother back and forth, waiting for the fire to take them both.

"Dean," came a soft familiar voice. "I am here, Dean, as I once promised you."

Through closed eyelids, Dean could still see the intense bright light in front of him. He opened his eyes and saw her. Silver-gray wings arched high above her head, and fanned out gloriously until they touched the floor. Waves of silken chestnut hair cascaded down over her shoulder in riotous splendor. She smiled at him, blue-green eyes sparkling.

"An-Angelina?"

"I told you, I'd be watching." In a blink, she was beside him, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder.

Dean could hardly believe his eyes. The last time he'd seen Angelina, she'd come to help them fight off the demon Beliar, in the forests of Old Forge. With her help, he'd sent the demon back to Hell where it belonged to wait for end times. After she'd had brought Sam back from the dead, Angelina had promised to watch over them, but Dean hadn't actually thought she would.

"Why are you here?"

"I thought that would be obvious, Dean." Angelina gestured around her toward the all-consuming blaze.

"You came cause we're dying? Dean tightened his hold on Sam. "Cause I gotta tell you that would so totally suck."

"You and Sam, always so willing to put one foot in the grave to save each other." Angelina chuckled. "But, that day is not today. Misery called to me and made a deal."

Dean stared at her in confusion. _Who the hell is Misery, and why would she make a deal on our behalf. _

"I don't understand," he choked out, coughing as more acrid smoke filled his lungs.

"The banshee couldn't stand the sight of losing both of you to evil, so Misery bartered her newfound freedom to save you and Sam."

"Freedom?"

"Yes, her freedom. When you didn't die at the hands of the demon, Mara, Misery was set free from her curse."

"An' she gave it up for us?"

"For as long as she's lived, Misery has loved your family, and could not bear to see you come to such an ill-demise. So to her, it wasn't even a sacrifice, and she would do it again gladly."

"Huh, kinda feel bad for callin' her a bitch now."

"Yeah, I kinda thought you would."

Angelina leaned over and brushed her lips against Sam's, softly breathing into his mouth. "What dark fires have stolen away, He gives back unto you. By the almighty grace and power of the great Ever-Present One, rekindle the life of your warrior son."

Sam drew in a gasping breath, coughing loudly, but his eyes remained closed.

"Pick up your brother, Dean — pick him up and carry him out of here."

Dean slowly got to his feet, his injured chest protesting against the jarring movements. He tried to lift Sam, but his knees buckled, sending them both crashing to the ground.

"I can't."

"There is nothing you can't do, Dean." Angelina knelt beside him and touched the right side of his chest, and the pain disappeared. "Mara took something away from you. It is my intention, to give you something more in return." Her delicate fingers traced a path to his left side and lingered there, and Dean breathed easy for the first time in so many days.

"Angelina — I wanted to. . . ." Dean's voice trailed off as Angelina covered his lips with two fingers.

"Shhh . . . Dean. You needn't speak of it. I already know."

She stood and helped Dean to his feet and then extended her arm to hand him something. Dean glanced down at a ring with the Star of David emblazoned on the surface. Five jewels adorned the ring, the first four representing the elements, the fifth, the human element as the archangel Gabriel had explained to Dean. The strange jewel outshone all the rest, and it gave Dean comfort.

"Mara cannot make you forget who you are, Dean." She took his hand and placed the ring on his finger. "This ring is a reminder of all the good you are destine to accomplish." Angelina bent and picked Sam up from the ground, and placed him gently in Dean's arms. "Now take your brother and leave this hellish place."

"But the fire, Angelina, there's no way out."

"Have faith, Dean. Have faith and walk right through it. I promise, you will not even feel it."

_God, why is it always have faith, Dean, with her. Why couldn't she just blow out the fire and say, there ya go, Dean, an easy way out for ya. _Dean repositioned his brother in his arms, Sam's head cradled against Dean's shoulder, and walked through the fiery inferno toward the door.

Flames licked at his legs, scorching his jeans, but as Angelina had promised he didn't even feel anything. _Okay, so maybe there is a little something to this faith thing, after all. _

At the door, he hesitated, having forgotten momentarily that it was blocked by a fallen beam. He shifted Sam in his arms, and turned to look at the angel. "Angelina, you think you could. . . ." He jerked his head toward the burning timber.

Angelina smiled at him, blue-green eyes glistening with pride. "Yeah, Dean, I think I could."

She waved her arm, and the beam disappeared in a blast of brilliant light. "Suppose you want me to get the door for you as well."

"I was kinda hopin'. You know, given that whole faith thing a go." He grinned at her.

In an instant she was at his side, opening the door.

"Damn, was actually thinkin' you would use some sort of angel magic on it, to blow it off its hinges."

She gave him a puzzled look. "Why would I do that when I can open it just as easily like this?"

Dean shook his head. "Never mind. I'll never understand angels. Demons sure . . . angels never."

Angelina chuckled as they strode toward the Impala. She opened the car door, and Dean set Sam down inside, shut it. He turned to face the angel who had saved his brother's life twice.

"Seems like every time I see you, I end up having to thank you for saving Sam's life," Dean said awkwardly.

"Yeah, it is becoming kind of a habit."

Dean kicked a stray stone with the tip of his boot, staring at the ground, not wanting to look Angelina in the eyes. "Anyway, thanks."

Taking off the ring she'd given him, Dean tried to give it back to her, but she closed her hand around his.

"No, it's yours. It always has been."

"Mara, she made me think. . . ." Dean's voice trailed off as he looked up at Angelina. "How do I explain to Sam that I gave up on him?"

"You know you need to face her, Dean," She said, ignoring Dean's question. "You have to show her she didn't win."

"Didn't she?" Dean shrugged, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I mean, from where I'm standin', the only reason I'm still alive is because Sammy and some banshee refused to give up on me."

Angelina lightly caressed his face. "All the more reason to face her, Dean, to show her how truly strong you are." She turned and strode away from him, silver-white wings fluttering in the breeze. "Remember to face a nightmare is to conquer it."

At the entrance of the burning building, Angelina twisted around to face Dean. "She never faced you, Dean. There's a reason why. Figure it out and she'll never be able to harm you again." A graceful smile settled on her serene face. "And as for telling Sam, I think you can trust that he'll understand the pain you were going through." Dean watched as Angelina disappeared in an explosion of glistening white light.

After she was gone, Dean open the driver's side door and slid into his seat. His hand loving caressed the steering wheel, a slow smile creeping across his features. _God, it's good to be home._

He grabbed the keys out of his pocket, put them in the ignition, turned the key and revved the engine, and noticed for the first time that Sam had hot-wired his baby. Smirking at his sleeping brother, who was snoring softly, Dean shook his head. _Damn, I'm so gonna have to kick his ass for that._

_XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX_


	13. Chapter 13

_So finally finsihing this story...for a while, i truly thought i never would!! hope everyone likes the ending!! thanks fro reading!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Thirteen_

Dean sat looking out the window at the darkened motel parking lot, thinking about what Angelina had told him. He knew Sam was watching him, could feel the weight of his stare on his back, but refused to turn around. "Go to sleep, Sam."

"Dean, you haven't slept more than two hours in the past three days."

"M'okay."

"No, you're not." Sam sat up in bed, and pulled on his jeans over his boxers. He strode to the small table Dean was sitting at, and plopped down in the chair beside him. "You haven't slept, you're hardly eating, and you look like hell." He hesitated for a second, then added, "In fact, hell looks damn good compared to you at the moment."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude." Dean scrubbed his hand across the two-days growth of stubble on his face, and sighed. "Just sittin' here thinkin' how I have to go back there."

"Why Dean. Mara's gone, I took care of her."

Dean turned to look at him, lowering his head when he saw the look of concern in Sam's hazel eyes. "Think that's the point, Sammy." He shrugged. "Think this is something I have to do."

Sam stared at him for a moment as he nervously tapped his fingers on the wooden table, then nodded in understanding. "All right, I'll go with you then."

"No, have to do this alone." Dean bobbed his head toward the window. "Was just waiting till it was dark enough."

"Dean — " Sam was about to argue, but Dean cut him off.

"Have to do this, Sammy, have to prove to myself that she didn't win."

"You ever gonna tell me what happened? I mean, I know it must've been pretty bad."

"Yeah, someday." Dean pushed back his chair, and stood. He strode to the door, opened it, and then turned to look at Sam. "But for now, I just want you to know that I'm glad you never gave up on me." Without waiting for Sam to reply, he turned and headed out the door, shutting it behind him.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the Rock 'n a Hard Place tavern. Not surprised to find it open for business, he parked the Impala beside the flashing hot pink neon sign. Taking a calming breath, he opened the door and slid out of the vehicle, then quietly shut it behind him.

The scent of burnt lumber still clung to the warm night's breeze. However, the building itself stood unmarred as if it had never been totally destroyed by the raging inferno that he and Sam had barely escaped from a few days prior.

He strode to the entrance, glanced back to make sure no one was following behind him, and entered. The moment he stepped inside, the country music on the radio stopped blaring, and the crowd all swung to look at him.

The same two muscular men who had been arm wrestling the first time he'd been in the bar, stood and headed toward him. Dean yanked his knife out of the holster attached to his belt, gripped it tightly in his hand and aimed the blade toward them. A glint of light fell across the cold steel, and both men noticing it, slowly backed away.

"Yeah, heard you boys were afraid of this. Now sit down before I slit your throats with it."

Dean pushed past the crowd of terrified nightmare demons, and stalked to the bar. Slamming the tip of the blade down into the wooden counter top, he let go of it, and waited for Mara face him.

"Care for a drink, Dean," she asked, without turning around.

Dean glanced at the neon sign on the wall, and noticed the names of the drinks. "Which drink did I have the last time?"

"Killer Nightmare." She swung to look at him, jade eyes sparkling unnaturally in the darkened room.

Dean nodded, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. "Yeah, think I'll have a beer."

"Bottle or what's on tap?" she asked, placing a glass down in front of him.

"What do you think?"

"Bottle it is then." Reaching under the counter, she grabbed a beer, opened it, and poured it in his glass.

"On second thought, I'll take the Killer Nightmare."

Mara leaned over the counter, and lightly caressed his cheek. "Really think you can handle it?"

Dean looked her square in the eyes, his own narrowing considerably. "Darlin', I can take whatever the hell you dish out."

"Fair enough, but don't say I didn't warn you." Mara grabbed a shaker, dropped in some ice and then poured in several jiggers of vodka, Jager, and rum over it, and then added the same blood red mixture she'd added the first time Dean had the drink. She shook it vigorously then poured some into two glasses. She snatched her glass off the bar, and raised it toward Dean and smiled. "Drink up."

Mara put the glass to her lips, and was about to take a sip when Dean grabbed hold of her arm and stopped her. "Forgot something didn't you?" Letting go of her, Dean swung to face the crowd of people milling around. "Not my first time, but what the hell." He raised his glass, and tipped it toward them. "One sip to enthrall you." He took a swallow of the fiery liquid. When he noticed no one drinking, he snatched his knife off the bar, and waved it at them. "Drink up. We're all here to have a good time."

He returned his attention to Mara. "Now how did that next line go?" he asked as he trailed the edge of the blade down the smooth bronzed skin of her arm, and she flinched. "Oh yeah, One sip to poison the mind." Dean quickly swallowed down more of the drink. "Liked that particular line . . . kinda really set the mood for the whole damn nightmare didn't it?"

"Lookin' kinda tired, Dean. Sure you don't want to take a little nap," Mara taunted, yanking her arm away from him.

"Naw, I'm good." He grinned, tipping the glass to his lips. "One sip to ensnare you." He took a long gulp. "One sip to make you mine . . . and then the nightmares begin." Emptying the remains of the sweet liquid, Dean forcefully slammed it down on the counter, shattering the glass.

Mara eyed him cautiously as she picked up the pieces of broken glass. "Care for another?"

Dean shook his head. "Nope, just gonna sit here and wait for you to try and screw my life all to hell again."

"Why would I need to do that, Dean. We both already know the only reason you're even alive is because of Sam."

"True. But we both also know that I'm not afraid of you. I'm stronger than you and that terrifies the hell out of you."

That's not — "

She tried to deny it, but Dean was quick to add, "It's why you drugged me . . . why you couldn't fight me. Cause when all is said and done, you aren't real. Your strength can only manifest itself in the unconscious mind."

"I can still hurt you, Dean. I can make every night a living hell for you," she warned, the look in her jade eyes turning deadly. "And eventually, I will kill you."

"See that's where you're wrong. You can't hurt me unless I believe you can. Misery taught me that."

Mara chuckled, and the crowd behind Dean followed suit. "You really think I can't hurt you?"

"Yeah, cause no matter how bad a nightmare might be, it's not real."

"Oh, I can make you believe it's real, Dean," Mara chided, taking a step closer to him. "Can make you relive your worst fears over and over again — "

Without warning, Dean reached out, snaked his arm around her neck, and yanked her toward the knife in his hand. Plunging the blade deep into her heart, Dean looked her dead in the eyes as she let out an ear-piercing screech. "I don't fear you." Viciously twisting the blade counterclockwise, Dean pulled her even closer to him. "I don't believe in you."

Dean yanked the knife out of her chest, and forcefully thrust her away from him. He swung to face Mara's minions. "You're not real . . . none of you are." The moment the words left his mouth, her followers disintegrated into nothing more than small heaps of stone and ash.

"You can't do this," Mara cried out as she gripped onto the bar for support. "You're not strong enough to defeat me."

Turning to face Mara, he gestured around the tavern. "This place doesn't exist. It's all in my mind."

The walls, ceiling and all the furniture inside the tavern melted away, leaving the two of them standing in an empty parking lot. The small piles of ash scattered in the warm breeze, disappearing into the darkness of night.

Dean glanced over at his car, and saw Sam leaning against the Impala with shotgun raised and aimed directly at Mara's heart. "Thought I told you I could handle this myself."

"You did, but when have I ever listened to you?"

Sam grinned, inclining his head toward Mara, and Dean swung to look at her. Mara raised her hand and stared at it, watching helplessly as it dissolved to nothing more than tiny granules of sand and then blew away in the wind. Her once beautiful face shriveled and cracked as it too turned to sand.

Dean turned and strode toward the Impala. Lowering his weapon, Sam walked around to the passenger's side, and got in.

"Come back here, Dean," Mara screamed, her voice growing weaker and more distressed the further he moved away from her. "I'm not finished with you."

Opening the car door, he faced her one last time. "Yeah, figured you'd say that. But, I'm so finished with you." He chuckled, feeling better than he had in a long time. Dean slid behind the wheel, and shut the door. Noticing the wires hanging loosely beneath the dashboard, he cuffed Sam across the back of his head.

"What the hell was that for, Dean?" Sam stared at him incredulously.

"Dude, you hot-wired my car."

"Was trying to save your life."

"Doesn't matter, Sammy, don't do it again."

Sam shook his head, letting out a deep exasperated groan. "Spare keys, Dean . . . not a new concept."

Yawning, Dean stretched his arms, and cuffed Sam across the head again. He grinned, green eyes sparkling with renewed determination. "Never gonna happen, dude. No one has keys to my car, but me."

Turning the key in the ignition, Dean revved the engine and pulled out of the now deserted parking lot, Metallica 's _Enter Sandman _blaring on the radio they drove away. "Now that I've taken car of that bitch, think I'm going to go back to the motel and crash for like a week."


End file.
